Sound Life
by ItCouldBeSweet
Summary: A new threat may not be what kills a member of Team Free Will this time. Is it the cause of an outbreak in uncharacteristically aggressive monster attacks? Update. She looked at Castiel's narrowed eyes and saw everything. His life. His lives. And she pitied him. He didn't know.
1. Prologue

"I do not believe this to be wise."

"You may be correct," he said indifferently, looking to his hands and flexing them. Controlling a physical body was not difficult in the least, but the sensation of movement -hair brushing against a bare arm, the flow and shifting of weight as one walked, the pull of skin and tightening of muscle that came from simple things such as sitting down or making a fist, the itch of fabrics against skin- took momentary adjustment. "As I recall, you were not obligated to accompany me."

She looked down to her bare feet, the color of the manicured nails blending almost see seamlessly into the plush carpeting. Soft. Pleasant. The woman dug her toes further in. "Do not misunderstand. I am not here out of concern for you and neither am I concerned about my welfare. That it... unnecessary. Rather, I fear of the effects our presence will have upon this universe. This has never been attempted before for what is arguably a valid reason."

She rose from the sofa to stand next to the smaller male who was still absorbed in the mechanics of this new form. To an uninformed observer it would look as if the young man were ignoring the woman. This could not be further from the truth. Planet, galaxy nor universe could sever their bond.

"And yet here you are," he pointed out dully, but then again that's how he always sounds. He turned around to his partner, unblinking. "I ask again: Why are you here? If not for my safety, then perhaps it is for a reason similar to mine."

"Curiosity?" A change in inflection. Disgust? Affronted? Was it even intentional? "To watch them is to know them; I need no more. No, I am here because of your lust to meddle in time otherwise left untouched. I will not let you involve yourself."

"Are you threatening me?"

"I assure you, you will be disconnected if information is disclosed." She paused, running a hand through her hair. Another enjoyable sensation. It was becoming simpler to understand why humans desired nothing more than to be touched by others. Once more, running her fingers through like a brush. "Why do you want this? I can think of no other reason than to interact with them." A blank stare was her only response. "You must not..."

Her words betrayed her even voice, one of a concerned colleague. But of what? "What harm will inquiries cause? My own questions, not theirs," he responded to her darkening presence. "I believe you escort me because you do not trust me, that I will begin to sympathize with the humans or that they will enrage me in some fashion leading me to insert myself into their affairs. What makes you so sure?"

She did not have a proper excuse, but she must not remain silent. "Every opportunity risks a weakening of will..."

The young man strolled to the fireplace, observing photos as he passed by. Two photographs side by side, one of himself -the child he was controlling- and one of a much younger boy, by eight years perhaps, who shared the same dark-lashed green eyes and confident smile. Brothers. These must be for school, he acquired. A superfluous annual ritual, but he did not understand most human customs. A small, forgettable music box was placed unopened beside that, painted white with light blue embellishments on the lid and a brass crank below the unassuming rectangle. He gathered from his partner that it belonged to the woman, passed down from grandmother to mother and eventually to daughter, but with two sons the tradition would die with her.

A wedding photo. Two young people with their whole lives ahead of them, a future where joy and happiness would greet them every morning until their final day. The wife looking aside to her relatives as she hopped down the church steps with her husband's hand in hers, her smile, her excitement, contagious. The husband, while more restrained, nevertheless looked as happy as she, gripping her small hand tightly in his as to not lose her in the crowd.

More odd and quixotic human traditions.

"You speak like them already, using a word of their own naivety, birthed from ego. Why do you assume it is I that shall fall under the sway of humanity? Are you exempt from soothe-saying and those who plead for our benevolence?"

"Because it was not I who desired to seek them. I have told you time immeasurable that I do not want counsel... They are for the most part detestable."

"Yet you cannot ignore them." The boy turned to view his partner who seemed to show signs of discomfort, a wrinkle in her brow visible. Was standing for such a period of time making her uncomfortable? Or better yet, was he correct? "Their existence fascinates you, as it does mine. You do not desire to involve yourself directly, but you will be there, two steps behind me, as I investigate. I am not mistaken in my assumption, yes?"

The silence proved him positive.

"There is nothing wrong with this behavior. I am not terribly fond of them either, but to realize their importance... I cannot sit as a bystander any longer and neither can you–"

"We are not the same," she interrupted, shifting her weight from one leg to the other. The desire to rest was taxing, but she would not. Not now. Not in front of him.

"If that is what you truly believe. I fail to see the harm in it. Standing here bickering about who is correct and incorrect will not get us closer to solving that maddening question. Shall we begin?" He appeared in front of her and gripped both of her shoulders, steadying her swaying. A sharp nod in acquiescence to himself and he disappeared, leaving the woman alone in the quiet, spacious house, her house, and internally reprimanding herself for losing this battle.

But she was stronger. Her will, her resolve she will display and win, making her colleague see the errors of his ways before he doomed them all.

They would not end up as the angels have.


	2. Lucidity

_This is why he does it._

_OK, maybe there are two reason why he does it, all for his own selfish purposes._

_One is the recognition, the simple satisfaction he has knowing that the moans and the panting and the chanting of his name over and over are for him and him alone. He can look up to view the clenched eyes and parted lips and slender fingers gripping the bedsheets like he wanted to rip holes into them, and hear between sharp intakes of breath_

Dean... Dean...

_and grin so smugly inward that Satan himself would be shocked. He is doing this to him, the angel imagining no one else, wanting no one else but his human to share his bed and indulge in his body._

_That's what it was, wasn't it? An indulgence, as Dean got as much pleasure out of this as the wanton Castiel currently was. Though he remained untouched, this is how he wanted it; his own needs would distract him from his goal._

Mmm– Dean

_His voice drawled on, moving his legs further apart slightly in an invitation for Dean to continue, to go further if possible._

_That was it. That was the reward. The dominance was merely a cherry and whipped cream. The way Castiel spoke Dean's name when he lay like this, when his mouth claimed his body, was the god damn blueberry pie itself. The honey-coated vibration shook Dean and seemed to do the same to the very air around them.. It rattled his brain, almost dizzying him. To hear that guttural groaning, the same raspy voice that Dean had teased him endlessly for over the years, was what made this nearly equivalent to sex. The tenseness in his gut, the flutter of his eyes, a contented sigh, a tingle up and down his spine. It was all there. Despite straining in his own shorts, he did not consider once releasing his grip on one of Cas' thighs and the base of his cock, stroking what Dean was unable to reach with his mouth, but he was hoping to change that in due time. With Cas more the willing to be a subject to Dean's experimentation, it shouldn't take too long to become skilled._

_Down. A languid pull back up, lips sealed tightly and cheeks drawn in creating suction. A mewl; Dean was going too slow. More, faster, why must you tease? His hand continued to stroke, just as slowly his mouth had, tongue now playing with the slit._

Dean... _Cas whined. He lifted his head slightly to view Dean, moving at a pace so frustratingly slow that he seemed to be on a vacation, not a worry in the world and no responsibilities to anyone. _Please... Too slow.

_The hunter looked up at Cas through his eyelashes. _I'm trying to coax more out. Now be quiet. _He resumed his work, sealing his bruised lips around the head and tongue flicking._

You mean... _His breath hitched as Dean intentionally grazed his teeth over the sensitive flesh._

Exactly that, yes. Zip it.

_Cas chuckled, or tried to as his exhales were interrupted by sharp and spasmodic inhales. _Would it not be easier... if I achieved orgasm quickly rather than–ohh, _he choked out as Dean ran his tongue flat against the underside of his cock, _rather than hoping more preseminal fluid will form?

_Mere weeks ago Dean would have choked on air in response to Cas' blunt use of medical and technical terminology to not just sex but anatomy in general, but having the angel's various body parts in his mouth on a now regular basis lightened the impact of such phrases._

Sure I could, but where's the fun in that? _Not to mention how listening to an otherwise stoic and headstrong creature beg for release, to give in to something so primal and human turned him on far greater than he was willing to admit or his body was able to show. He was not a stranger to such psychological arousal, but it had been way too long and he greeted it like an old friend._

_The taste, well, it was an extremely pleasant surprise. That was what frightened Dean, but only at first; the horror stories that assaulted all senses made him feel uncomfortable and kind of nauseated. But those were human problems. How do angels fare? A celestial diet was having no diet to speak of, so that was something. Other than the stint in Purgatory and a small amount of post-Purgatory, they're hygienic and... Well, this all bothered Dean something terrible until one day he had Cas naked and hard underneath him but with eyes so patient and understanding that Dean thought to himself, fuck preconceptions._

_Molten hot velvet against his tongue. The musk accumulating over the day was non-existent. Salty perhaps, but not the highly condensed briny liquid he was expecting. _

_It was Cas. It was not the body he was inhabiting. The taste, the moans, the curl of his toes when Dean got it just right, and of course his bewilderment when the insufferable human insisted on slowing his ministrations down to the speed of grass growth. It was Cas and he wanted every little thing he could offer._

_Mine. Yes._

_Don't let go of him. Don't let him fall._

I won't. _Dean sighed and looked up to Cas, who stared back with the same veil of disappointment. _Looks like the honeymoon's over.

_Cas turned his head aside. _You never let me finish. _Like clockwork he pouted resembling the stubborn child he was when they were interrupted. Dean rose to all fours and crawled over top of his sulking mate, a glimmer of light in his eyes._

You know I can't control it. I'll get ya off one day. Promise. _He grinned in spite of himself, realizing how absurd that sounded out loud. Yes, Dean meant it but really, it was an odd promise to make. If circumstances were different, that is._

_Castiel huffed and looked Dean in the eyes. He opened his mouth in reply and shut it just as quickly, eyebrows lowered quizzically. The internal struggle for words was lost on Dean but he made no mention of it. In the meantime he would enjoy Cas' display of every facial expression he knew. It wasn't much. Maybe the fact that his length remained fully engorged resting on his stomach was making him feel peckish. That was understandable._

_A warm hand caresses Dean's cheek, soft, reassuring, thumb tracing through stubble._

Libera te ex infernis .

_Dean cringed and violently shook his head, batting the hand away. _No. You can't do this again. You sound like him, you sound exactly fucking like him! _His voice rose exponentially higher as his frustration and anxiety grew. Flight was now not an option, invisible chains tethering him in place. Several times this has happened yet he still struggled against those bonds like a captive animal, frightened and aggressive. _Why... Why are you pretending to be Cas! _he growled._

I am, Dean. _Whatever it was currently inhabiting Castiel looked genuinely upset. _Why do you fight me?

Fuckin' liar! _Dean spat and pulled his fist back. Never given a straight answer, it was all he could do._

_One to the nose, the echo of the crack sharp in the small expanse of the room. Another to the temple, then the cheek, blood beginning to drip from the left nostril. The pain never registered from the force and neither did it for "Cas," who looked neither hurt nor scared nor threatened. Only patient. Always humbly waiting. Why did he look like that? It always ended this way and the expression never changed. Do something. Say something. _Answer me!

_Another._

_That voice. He couldn't tolerate it. Could not accept it._

_Another crack and blood on his knuckles._

You can't do this to me, _Dean nearly choked out. _It's... _He hung his head low and squeezed his eyes closed. _It's not fair.

_The last one, a blow he put his entire body weight into was intercepted, "Cas'" grip easily holding back his own. Blood on his lips running into his grinning mouth, dying white teeth. Reddening swollen skin. One eye sealing shut. And he brought that hand to his lips, kissing the swelling knuckles._

It's okay, Dean. Libera te ex infernis.

_A flap of wings and his world turned_

to an all too familiar sight. Filtered sunlight through cigarette smoke-stained curtains, resting in a bed that was not his own. A ceiling fan rotating slowly above him which as far as he could recall was not on when he and Cas went to bed. Cas must have had his reasons. Fake hardwood paneling just shy of his field of vision a beacon of his lifestyle as much as the Impala and the artillery she transported. A tsunami of nostalgia and repugnance would rise within whenever his focus strayed to the tacky motif.

Another day, another motel room. Another bright beginning in the life of Dean Winchester, slayer of monsters and other assorted abominations, and dreamer of sex as violent as his waking life. This made it the third night in a row in a span of weeks that seemed like eons of troubled sleep. An occasional wet dream was nothing new to him; lengthy journeys on the road, injuries, unpleasant cocktails of hexes and curses, and those rare as good news evenings where he simply struck out left him more sexually frustrated than should be allowed for a guy such as himself. Violence came with the territory, images seared into his memory like a retinal burn. But together... It was discomforting. They stood on the border of nightmare and omen. They did not frighten him nor scare him, although the visions left a residue of unease for nearly a half hour after waking.

_Do_ the dreams have a purpose, a portent of something to come? Was it frustration? Dean's inability to act upon his emotions and urges weighed heavily upon his mind daily. Drawing a hand close to the angel he cared so deeply for, the angel he wanted to show that love to, only to pull away.

His angel. Ancient and innocent all at once. Misguided but weren't they all? A creature who suffered just as harshly as Dean and yet remained so understanding and endured. The man, a mortal with daddy issues and a toxic attachment to his brother who thought the world owed him nothing would gaze into the soft eyes of an angel who proclaimed that it owed him everything. Castiel was not ignorant to the struggle Dean was enduring internally, but the creature who bemoaned riding in automobiles laid beside him in silence, asking no questions and encouraging only with a quick quirk of his lips, knowing there were some problems he could not help solve and trusting Dean to come to a conclusion.

If it's not a demon or ghost haunting him, it's sex. Or a lack of it in this case.

Dean rubbed his eyes vigorously and let out a discouraged groan. He couldn't take many more nights of this.

"You looked troubled, but I was still reluctant to wake you," Cas replied softly to Dean's movement. "Should I do so next time?"

He laughed darkly to himself; even Cas knew there was going to be a next time, the frequency not lost on him either. While becoming a nuisance and a foul ending to what was otherwise fantastic dreams, he was not sure if he should prevent himself from having them. Was there a deeper message he wasn't able to perceive yet, some symbolic bullshit that was better left to his brother to decipher? Like the Latin. That's Latin, right? It has to be. Other than the exorcism ritual he knew not a word of the dead language. Hell, he wasn't even sure if the phrase was only gibberish doing a very convincing impression of what he thought of as correct.

Dean was positive Cas could translate for him, but he was not ready just yet for the magnitude of questions the ever-curious angel would ask. Sam, on the other hand, would know well enough not to pry after the first inquiry. He'd find the time to ask his brother privately. That simple task sounded like the quest to find the holy grail with Cas quite literally perched upon his shoulder. He loved Cas to death, but he made it so difficult to talk behind his back while he faced you only a foot away.

"No, it's fine," Dean said, trying to convince himself he was, in fact, fine. "They're not nightmares or anything. Just a little bit on the weird side. Nothing I can't handle." His voice grated like rocks in a food processor from a dry throat, but removing himself from the bed to remedy the situation sounded like the most idiotic decision to be made in the history of bad decisions. His legs wouldn't budge and god damnit, he remained somewhat aroused and confused... Confused about the dream and confused as to why he was turned on despite him caving in Cas' head.

Some days he wished he had the option of calling in sick to work. Pulling the blankets above their heads, pressing Castiel tight against him and commanding him to not ask questions and be quiet, let's go back to sleep and let Sammy risk his ass today, it rang like church bells in his mind. If only.

_Dean... Please._

Oh yeah, everything was fine.

Deep, soothing breaths, Dean, come on now. In, that's great, doing just fine, and out.

"Your lie is obvious," Cas said matter-of-factly, "but I will not press the matter further as a courtesy."

Dean swallowed, trying to wet his parched throat. "Very kind of you, Cassy."

Cas huffed at the childish -as if "Cas" wasn't juvenile enough- nickname. It nipped at his skin like an insect, nothing but annoying to him, and Dean knew it. All a part of being a member of his new family. But that was absolutely no reason to enjoy it. Cas had made a mental list of sobriquets for his mate, contemplating them days before the rainy day in the Impala. Upon inspection, he concluded that the risk of aggravating or having Dean storm out of his life with tears in his eyes was too great. So he withheld them, as Dean continued to taunt with "Cassy" when the urge struck him.

The Winchester twisted onto his side and shoved an arm under the pillow, closing his eyes. "Is it too late for me to go back to sleep or are we at that point where you start _unintentionally_ kicking me and groaning until I get up?"

"Sam left his room to begin his morning jog fifteen minutes ago so staying awake would be reasonable." Cas continued, somewhat affronted. "I do not mean to hit you. Resuming sleep is difficult for me..."

"Yeah yeah yeah, why don't you just admit it? You paw at me so you can get my attention. Don't think I haven't noticed you falling asleep every night before I do: it's so you're not left alone. And you don't run the risk of oogling me while I'm passed out," Dean added.

He could feel the angel shift, sitting up. What he could not see was his expression, his voice providing no hint to the honest emotion behind the matter. "I touch you so that I may have your attention. That's a partial truth," he pointed out more lightheartedly, becoming amused with himself. "The kicking is due to my being unable to reclaim unconsciousness. You cannot sense the difference between a caress and my knees bumping into yours?"

Dean tossed the covers over his head, not sure if he was intending to muffle his voice or Cas'. "No, I can't. They all start feeling the same around the eighth bruise, Pele."

"I am... sorry..." Cas' voice faded, like something grabbed his attention and he forgot he was in the middle of a conversation about bedtime etiquette and safety. It remained this way for what felt like five minutes to Dean, still anticipating for Cas to be ashamed or steamed or fucking _something_. He remained still and silent.

"Cas?"

Did time freeze?

"Hey, Cas?"

Wasn't Chronos dead? Damnit, _angels_ again? What's wrong now?

He uncovered his head and pulled down the bed cover to his waist. Well, Cas was blinking, so that was a positive sign. Dean pulled himself up onto his knees, tight muscles and limbs aching in protest. The glossiness of his eyes and relaxed facial features told Dean he was in the very far recesses of space. Hands limply placed on either side of his thighs, his gaze was dead ahead as if he were watching a show on the television directly across the bed, like when Castiel paid the utmost attention to the delicate nuances and subtlety that was _Bridezillas _and series of the like.

A quick wave of the hand and snap of the fingers yielded no results. Did I short circuit him? Dean asked himself. I broke him, didn't I? I just blue screened the guy I have sexy bloody dreams about. No, that doesn't sound right. It has to be a waking dream.

"Alright Cas, I'm gonna bet my necklace that this'll snap you out of it, I'm that positive. How about..." Dean paused for dramatic effect, leaning in close to Cas's ear and whispered, "_Cassy._" He beamed, expecting a pat on the back and a job well done. It never came; Cas didn't budge a fraction of an inch. Dean sighed disgustedly, ashamed with himself for failing when being so damn sure.

"Good thing there's no witnesses to that bet I just made," Dean mumbled, unconsciously clutching at his neck. "Our little secret, right Cassy?"

Castiel blinked.

"Glad we're on the same page. Now there has to be some reset button on you somewhere." He grabbed Cas by the shoulders and mildly shook him, almost expecting to hear a rattle of a broken part inside. "Unless it's an angel poking where it doesn't belong, then you better wake up so you can stab them."

"Who do you want me to stab, Dean?"

Castiel's eyes unglazed so quickly, his voice came on so suddenly and so calmly that Dean yelped and fell onto his backside and nearly off the bed. "The hell, man?!" Dean forced out indignantly, trying to remain calm despite the embarrassment of screeching out like a little girl. It was his eyes, he rationalized. It was if he had a second set of eyelids. Nothing he hadn't seen before, although terrifying to see in someone he shared his bed with.

"Have I done something to startle you?" Cas asked innocently.

"Um, yeah? You just... You don't remember, don't you?"

"I haven't the slightest clue as to what you are talking about so it is safe to assume that no, I don't." Cas squinted. "Are you sure you weren't dreaming?"

"I wasn't. I'm pretty certain I wasn't." Dean hunched over in both exhaustion and defeat. "Now I don't know. It was just..." He shook his head. "It was weird."

The angel leaned over and patted Dean's hand. "But I see you're awake now. I am too, which means I can't kick you, correct?" Dean nodded, head still drooping. "Your dreams nor my regard for your time will affect you. For a short period." A broad smile graced Cas's lips.

Nothing about this settled right with Dean. His own dreams of nearly beating Cas to death were he not interrupted, Cas blanking out and being so swift to pass the blame on him. It did not bode well, not at all. Vision like this weren't to be shoved aside and ignored; no, he had made the mistake of doing that, losing valuable information so he could pass them off as hippie New Age "dream interpretation" bullshit. Something was amiss but there was still too little information to narrow down possibilities. Telling Sam or Garth "I had a bad dream" would get him laughed at, and saying Cas blacked out in bed, well, he'd never hear the end of it. All Dean could do now was wait for a hint and hope it did not come at a cost.

A ruffle of sheets and Cas rose from the bed and Dean begged to Cas's father that if he were truly listening to his creation he'd get Cas to cover up because he really, _really_ didn't need this right now. He padded to the small kitchenette hidden dimly in the corner of the room and opened the refrigerator door.

"You sound like shit." After deep contemplation that the brightly colored purple sports drink had the appearance of good taste, he grabbed it and tossed it Dean's way who, after a brief internal struggle that made the American Civil War look like a pillow fight, looked at Cas and cursed all the gods he could name.

He snatched the bottle out of the air and twisted off the cap. At least Cas wasn't completely unlike himself. Dean enjoyed it so when Cas cussed. It made him slightly less of a nerd. Only slightly.

* * *

Sam returned shortly after Dean found the willpower to lifelessly roll off the bed and shuffle to the bathroom to brush his teeth. The youngest Winchester brother announced his arrival with a knock on the door and a shout loud enough the cars on the interstate could hear.

"Would you two finish up having sex in there? We have places to go Dean and I'm starving." A pause. "But not as much as you were."

Dean could _feel_ that little shit of a horse snickering through two walls separating them. One of these days he would have Cas face-down on the mattress and was going to make damn sure Sam knew it.

A slam of a door and Sam returned to him room, to peel off sweaty clothing and shower meaning Dean had very little time to get ready. For a man the height of a giraffe and hair like a lion's mane it should take much longer for Sam to bathe. If his hair style were to give anything away, he probably just willed himself to be clean; Dean had never seen his brother use spray nor gel nor mousse to get that shiny and perfectly windswept look and that made him, in Dean's book, a dick. Perfect hair, perfect grades, perfect abs, perfect manners. Why was Dean protecting him, again?

Dean turned off the television before Cas could become too involved with whatever garbage aired on cable this early in the morning and demanded he get dressed. Despite the normal stubborn resistance, it never lasted long and Cas obliged, wings flapping and tie askew.

"One of these days you'll poof on your clothes correctly," Dean chided, tightening and centering the knot.

There's more to this act than simply correcting clothing. Castiel knew this well, watching Dean do this countless times. His eagerness to help, the attention he put into it similar to tuning up and maintaining Baby. It affected Dean on an emotion level, playing the part of big brother and father to someone new: c'mere you idiot, let Big Brother Dean fix this for you. There was so little he could do to help his angel physically, so Cas let him, on the days Dean noticed enough that the tie needed adjusting.

In a race to beat the clock Dean threw on his standard interview/morgue suit-and-tie costume with such speed that by the time he finished he thought an award was in order. Oh the ways he maimed himself to show up his brother; he wondered if it was ever this way with Castiel's brothers once upon a time, competitions to show who was better at something or who loved Dad more. He was a pain in the ass and perfect, but Dean thought himself very fortunate to only have one sibling.

The heat that hit him like hammer to the face as he opened the door made him want to broadcast his disgust to the world using language not meant for most of it and turn around to the comfort of dwelling indoors. Castiel trailing him out the door made that impossible. Too sunny, too hot to be wearing so many layers of clothing. The quicker the job gets done, the quicker he could change clothes, Dean ensured himself.

Fearing to set himself in the Impala just yet, he opened the door to air her out and rested against the front of the car.

"Could you do me a favor, Cas?"

"Yes, as long as you allow me one, also."

Dean hummed in interest and crossed his arms over his chest. "I'll see what I can do.

"I know you're not gonna like it, but would you take off that fucking coat? My insides are melting just by me looking at ya."

"But I do not sweat. There's no reason for me to do that," Cas protested, looking down at his attire without realizing.

"I'm not chaperoning you on this field trip with it on. Besides, you'll draw attention like flies on carrion in this heat. You might not know this yet, but," Dean glanced over his shoulders as if he were about to divulge an earth-shattering secret and the press might be hiding in the bushes recording it, "humans do sweat."

"I do not wish to go on a _field trip_ today." The words were stressed, a new phrase to his vernacular.

No, this wasn't right, not at all. Since the day in the Impala when he asked Cas if he looked for mutual suffering in a mate he had never passed an opportunity to travel with the brothers, practicing the investigative side of hunting. Something was off and Dean was not hallucinating it. The short time between Cas waking and sitting up to exit the bed, something had occurred. The request rose red flags but to bring this suspicion to Cas' attention would only put him on the defensive again. Like before, all he could do at the moment was agree to the request and inquire later.

"Sure Cas. You're a big boy, no obligations to tag along all the time." Dean climbed into the driver's seat and slammed the door shut, rolling down the window and leaning out of it. The heat was still suffocating, but this was going to be as good as it was going to get until he got the car rolling. "Just promise me that," he took a short and sharp breath, trying to force the concern out of his voice, "that you'll come back here, 'K? If you get into trouble," he added as Cas' eyes grew darker. Someone meeting Cas for the first time, maybe even Sam, might not notice it. Dean sure as hell did.

Cas replied playfully all the same. "Yes, mother. I'll respect your curfew."

"I swear to god, Cas, your sass mouth is going to get you in trouble one of these days."

Sam exited his room beside Dean's own, hair partially damp and momentarily clean as Cas flew off, tan coat remaining on his body. "He's not coming with us?" Sam asked, pointing with his thumb to the empty space, just as confused as Dean was.

"Guess even angels need a change of scenery sometimes. Weren't you hungry?" Dean hollered, wanting to change the topic as quickly as possible. "How about... a rectangular egg substance breakfast sandwich, huh? Sounds delicious! C'mon Sammy, what the hell are we waiting for!" Sam grimaced and approached the car, not so hungry anymore.

Cas would come back, right?


	3. Jericho

"Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah?" He replied, snapping a latex glove unnecessarily to his wrist. It made him feel so much more professional, like he was an actual FBI agent instead of a man impersonating one. After spending all of his adult life creating fake ID badges and playing dress-up, the FBI should initiate him on principal alone.

"Aren't you just the least bit..." Sam furrowed his brow, trying to find the correct word. "Unsettled?"

"Unsettled? About what? Like our lives revolve around death and torture, does that make me a little restless?"

"No. Well, kind of." A quick scan the names on the storage cabinets revealed the body they needed, Sam sliding it out in a smooth motion. "We just had breakfast, and a _huge _breakfast at that. By the way," he looked over to his brother leaning on the autopsy table in the middle of the room, "I feel like I have to bathe after watching you eat those hash browns. The grease... How are you still alive?"

Dean leaned himself off the table and put his hands into his coat pockets, casually walking his way beside his brother. "I've died way too many times to let a little cholesterol and saturated fat take me out. Besides, I have a knack for beating the odds and your assumptions. 'Oh Dean, that's going to kill you, why don't you eat sawdust and orange rinds like me?' 'Dean, that demon is too dangerous, instead of using violence why don't I talk to it?'"

"Jesus Dean, I _don't_ speak like that," Sam rolled his eyes. "And was it necessary to mock antlers on your head with your fingers like that?"

"Damn right it was." The corner of Dean's mouth quirked up into a smile.

Sam sighed. It was way too early to be fed up with Dean's shit already. Investigation days were long, longer than most. Early to rise, repetitive drives to interviews, the interviews themselves, hours of research that lasted well into the night and sometimes into the next day. The end of the world is cataclysmic but at least it has an end, unlike Dean's facetious mouth. "_As I was saying_. We just ate and we're now going to poke at a cold disfigured corpse and not only that, but as we have a casual conversation about how casual we are while standing right next to it. Doesn't it frighten you how adjusted we've become to this lifestyle?"

"The way I see it? Morticians do the same thing everyday and they're functioning members of society. Well," Dean shrugged, "as far as I know. They saw open skulls, crack open rib cages, weigh organs like they were produce at a grocery store and ask their assistant if his daughter won that soccer game she was playing yesterday. Same with law enforcement. Some face death more easily than others."

"Yeah..." Sam looked Dean in the eyes, a sudden seriousness taking him. "But did you ever imagine it would be that easy for you? For us?"

The muscles of Dean's face tightened briefly, a pause in his usual quickfire replies showing that this conversation was heading into a direction that was otherwise off limits and would be ending before Dean's mind had a chance to reflect. "I can't speak for you, Sammy, but I knew exactly where I was heading. I didn't have the same luxuries growing up that you had." He clenched his jaw shut before he began to raise his voice and say something that would cast a gloom over the rest of the day. The job came first; there would always be another time to brood over his childhood. And the situation with Castiel earlier? That wasn't a situation. Yet.

Fingers digging into the palm of his hand, Dean made a tight fist hoping the discomfort would distract himself from his high-strung thoughts. "Let's can the Dr. Phil crap for now and get to work."

Sam silently agreed as Dean grabbed the corner of the sheet and pulled down.

As it turned out, Sammy really was onto something a week and a half ago when he interrupted Cas's solo costume party at the bunker. A couple of hours before, while sleep eluded him, Sam searched online for suspicious deaths, the standard case fare: locations, missing body parts, punctures. Two incidents seemed to have good leads as he told Cas and Dean once they arrived in the kitchen for coffee, Cas composed and indifferent to his bedhead (and after several minutes of the hunter's pleading and begging for charity, Cas changed back into his suit and coat) and Dean, shoulders tense and eyes wide, blinking rapidly. Sam had several guesses to explain his brother's panicky expression but none he wanted to think about too deeply.

The first case came from Ashland, Ohio. A female in her early thirties found outside in her backyard, 70% of the flesh missing from her body. Her boyfriend had an alibi and the neighbors heard nothing and because the lights stayed off all night no one knew she was even home.

"Missing flesh..." Sam looked expectantly to both Dean and Cas from above his laptop. "That set off any alarms?"

A quick shake to clear out the fog in Dean's mind, he answered. "Well there's, um– it could be a wendigo, but the last time I checked they don't dine at residential buffets. And what about... What the hell's their name?"

"Rakshasa."

Dean slapped his thigh. "That's it." Though his mind had cleared up some, visions of Castiel's pale flat stomach being replaced by layers and tan and modesty, his voice was still syrupy thick, still trying to catch up with the rest of his body. "Thanks for thinking today for me, Cas." He heard a loud snort come from across the table. Instead of calling Sam a bitch like he rightfully deserved, Dean laughed acrimoniously and flipped him off.

"So we have two possibilities, right? There'll probably be even more once we investigate further, but as it stands right now: What do these creatures have in common? _Other_ than being flesh-eaters, Dean."

Castiel began to softly drum his fingers against the warm coffee mug, doing what he could to not answer the question. He would have to wait for his turn.

Sensing Cas's struggle to not be a teacher's pet, showing an act of restraint that was becoming more and more common as their relationship continued, he decided to let the nerdy angel answer. "Go ahead. Don't want you exploding again."

"Having my vessel explode was disorienting, Dean. I had no idea where I was. It's not something to joke about lightly."

"Now that you mention it, where exactly did you go? Did you just kinda," Dean waved a hand lazily in the air, "float back up to heaven?"

"_Dean_."

Sam snorted once again, earning a quizzical look from Dean and something along the lines of blind contempt from Cas which only made him want to laugh harder. Dean's casualness, Castiel's tone in response to that flippancy. It may not seem like much, but to anyone who knew the two as well as Sam did, it showed a hell of a lot of progress. By now Cas would have teleported himself to a point on Earth furthest away from Dean in a huff of indignation. Yet here he remained, with a scowl and an angel blade concealed in his coat that he contemplated using but never did. He's changing. Dean is changing him whether he recognizes it or not. It may seem to subtle, but to an outsider the transition was as heart-warming as their situation could be. They were acting as if -though Sam would never dare say it aloud- they were married. So he covered his mouth to hold back another impending chortle and apologized, asking for Cas to continue.

"Before is was thoughtlessly disrespected," Cas' eyes darted to Dean beside him, who took a sip of coffee and found a corner of the ceiling suddenly irresistible (Sam bit his lower lip), "I was going to say that, from what I've gathered from your father's notes and being in your company over the years is that both of these instances would be incredibly rare. Wendigos inhabit woodland areas, not suburban sprawls, and a rakshasa sighting has not been reported in several years. That is," he turned his attention to Sam, "if no other hunters have encountered one."

"I called up Garth and he says he hasn't gotten a confirmed rakshasa report since he took over," Sam confirmed.

"So there's a chance one of two endangered baddies come out of retirement. No bombshell there," Dean implied skeptically.

"Well that's what I thought too at first, until I came across another vic with a very specific part of their body missing in a different part of the country. Another ring to Garth and he confirmed my suspicion."

"And this would be what? A heart? An eye? Pinky toe?"

"Oh, I bet you're going to love this one, Dean." Sam coughed out a hollow mockery of a laugh, trying to cover up something that resembled everything of his brother. Bitter, forlorn. He read off the statistics like a line he was forced to memorize. "A man, aged 43, on his way home from work makes a pit stop at a gas station, fill the tank up then so he doesn't have to the next morning before work. Uses a credit card to pay but never even opens the cap. As far as the video surveillance shows, something caught his attention off to the side. Loud noise, movement, a voice, no one knows yet. The surrounding area is fairly wooded area so all he would have seen was brush, tall grass.

"Anyway," his eyes dart down quickly, tapping something on the laptop's keyboard, "he goes off to investigate the source, going off camera. The guy never reappears. Noticing the car's been there for nearly fifteen minutes and abandoned the store clerk heads outside to see if the owner is there, asks the current patrons if they're seen anyone loitering around. (The moment he pulled in until several minutes after he disappeared from view the vic was alone.) No, I didn't see anything. By pure happenstance he calls out near the boundary between the woods and pavement and hears a rustle of leaves and footsteps, like someone was off in a hurry. He was spooked and called the police 'cause it could have been anything: rabid animal too close to the property, teenagers acting like teenagers, or it could have been the reason we're talking about it right now."

"Oh, I know this one." Dean leaned in close to Cas and whispered loud enough for Sam to hear. "Don't worry, I got this." Cas turned his head to the side and rolled his eyes. "The answer is," he raised his voice to a near shout, "'What is a ookie spooky ghoulie?'"

God damnit, and he sounded so confident and proud, like he didn't purposely say one of the most ridiculous lines ever uttered by a Winchester, and that came from many, many ill-spoken speeches recited over many, many cursed generations. "Yes, Dean. That's... correct." Dean nudged Cas on the arm, _See Cas? What did I tell you? I knew it. _The angel understood just fine, and ignored it all the same. "It wasn't a question, but yeah. Good for you. So an officer gets there, checks out the woods and finds our vic on the ground, face up. No visible gunshot or knife wounds, really no signs of a struggle at all except of some blood on the face. Ambulance arrives to pick up the body and notice something a bit peculiar: the back of the head was completely smashed open and the brain wasn't, uh, in its proper place. The weapon was never found, either.

"The body is taken in for an autopsy and what they found is one of two details that make this situation very relevant. To me, anyway." Sam's voice was beginning to take on a sour note, as if the words burned on his tongue. He remained in control but his distaste was audible. "They examine the haphazardly used brain and find its fucking _pituitary gland _is missing."

Why did that sound so familiar? But then the dots began to connect themselves at the speed of light, key words sparking memory. Pituitary gland. Autopsy. Parts of the brain missing.

Amy Pond. Dead. Her son. Sam.

"Kitsune," Dean said in a near whisper. That explained Sam's interest in the vic, and the waver of umbrage in his voice. It had become personal. Dozens of concerns flashed through Dean's mind, hoping none would make manifest on his face, Jacob taking priority. Sam was already emotionally invested. To show panic would undoubtedly be picked up by his brother and the topic of kitsunes and Amy Pond was a can of worms best left unopened.

Did Sam suspect anything? Did he find out through some means that Amy was dead and, worse, that Dean killed her? Was Jacob now killing? He had promised his mother's murderer that he would not kill anyone but Dean, but promises weren't worth the air they were breathed these days, even less so from hostile creatures.

He settled down these worries, deep down to his stomach, to fester along with all of his other problems in life, ulcers be damned; but still showed a small amount of concern, casting his eyes low and a shift in his seat, that he recognized the situation Sam was in, being reminded of a troubling ordeal in both of their lives. One that ended in betrayal and as far as Dean knew, that morsel of information was shared between two motherless boys.

To the side of him, Castiel felt it. Contrary to what Dean believed he could not read minds. However, the luminosity, the purity of his raw emotions would rise off of him like a solar flare, changing the air around him. An even humming vibration on the rare days he was content or in a state of relaxation: sleeping without dreams, a day of no hunts, no blood, no deaths, no world to save; when Dean would be comfortable enough to let his defenses down; when he looked into Castiel's eyes while they both lay in bed in silence, mind lulled into a contentment normally foreign to him: the warmth of a body next to him, the assurance of a powerful and august angel ready at a moment's notice him, to kill for him, all before doubt and resentment and _fear_ settled into his psyche, a dark cloud as thick as sludge and spread outward. It became... so erratic, the air charging, bouncing, as it was now. Dean was being threatened. Cas would not question it. He never did and he would not start now. Whatever was bothering Dean was between him and his brother.

"It gets even better." Sam turned the laptop to face Cas and Dean, both men leaning closer. "See if anything gets your attention."

It appeared to be an article on the murder Sam was speaking of, only with less details on the murder itself, more on the victim's background, and no mention of the creature that did it; no surprises there. It reminded Dean how such a thankless occupation he had and how stupefyingly ignorant the public remained on matters of the unknown and occult. The sightings, murders and families affected by them, the fucking _apocalypse_, Leviathans. He could understand people being skeptical of aliens because they have an affection for midnight human takeout in the middle of states with the population of three and all three of them are in the woods, drunk like they're trying to beat a record. But the things he sees, the things he hunts, day or night, location, gender, race, income – none of that matters. And yet life goes on, shrugging off the things they don't comprehend.

While Dean skimmed through the article itself, Cas knew exactly what to look for. "The location and date."

"That's, um, right," Dean quickly agreed as his eyes darted to the top of the page. OK, OK. The place was Missouri, in a suburb of Independence. Before he could say that the three of them were in that area of the state only days ago, he checked the date. "June 30th. Son of a bitch." Only a day after they left. "It's too big of a coincidence."

"I'm correct in assuming that a kitsune is another rare mark?" Cas looked at Sam, but Dean nodded, suddenly feeling very tired. "Do you suppose it could be stalking us?"

Dean hoped no one caught him flinching.

"Given our history with them, it very well could be." Sam pulled back his laptop and slapped it closed. "I never suspected them to exchange info, being solitary hunters, but it seems that miracles are happening everyday."

_It's a miracle Sam doesn't suspect anything_, Dean groaned to himself.

"What do you theorize, Sam?" Cas leaned back, straight and at attention as his posture always was when hearing details of cases, ever inquisitive, while Dean remained hunched over.

"Well," Sam began, folding his arms on the table, "it's still too early to go right to a worse-case scenario yet, but it is odd, right? Two seldom seen _ghoulies" _–he tilted his head toward Dean– "attacking within such a short time of each other and one being close to our vicinity raises a red flag, but I don't think it's enough to interfere with the hunters already working these cases."

"Despite–"

"Despite whatever personal interest I may have in one of them. I'll give Garth a call in a day or two if he doesn't call me, and we go from there. Sound alright, Dean?"

"Yeah, sounds great, Sammy." Dean took a breath, gathering his bearings. "I don't want to fuck around with a kitsune unless we absolutely have to. Until we're forced to go on that path we play it by ear. Pretty sure that's not going to be the last we hear of a blast from our past reminding us it still exists so we all keep an eye out. Strange deaths, rumors, whatever. We good?"

The room was glowing in bleached artificial florescent lighting, reflecting off of metal tables, sharp tools, a rectangular wall storing the bodies of people they would never know, causes of death deemed too natural to be of concern. Lucky. It was too white, too sanitized, too bold, a set for a movie or TV show where colors are exaggerated for the lens, or a painting. Press too hard and you might cause a tear. No different than the hundreds of other morgues they've had the privilege of going to, but today it was just too vivid.

When Sam had first walked into the room, after bypassing the kid who couldn't have been old enough to vote yet at the front desk of the building, fooled by years of smooth talking and perfecting false identification, he noticed the emerald green floor. Hell, it was hard to ignore for such a color should never be seen indoors, and a "Green Mile" pun tugged at his brain like a bad influence. He wondered if Dean thought the same; this was his sort of joke.

An ID bracelet gave them information the already knew: these were the remains of Justin Silvia, caucasian male, aged 39, 5'11", brown eyes and hair. Stab wounds and slices covered the face, torso and legs, all cleaned and stitched, swollen and patchy purple flesh making the man look like Frankenstein's monster. An incomplete one.

Two punctures on the left side of the neck was all they needed to know about the creature, or creatures.

"What about this?" Dean pointed to the right shoulder, where the arm should have been hanging from but was savagely torn out. "Was that done before or after death?"

"All the wounds here were done prior to death," Sam said while lifting the vic's eyelid. "The stabs, the missing tongue and eye here, dismembering the arm, everything while this guy was alive and breathing."

"Poor bastard." The methodology and violence reminded him all too well of a time when that was a performance he did so wonderfully on a daily basis and that too may have been considered tame and lenient. This man was fortunate enough to die.

"The autopsy report mentions the marks on the neck. Since the blood-work came back clean, suspecting a needle is unlikely so the source remains undetermined."

Dean's eyes were drawn to the thick stitches holding together the skin at the shoulder, not done to look good but done out of necessity. The skin looked hard, almost like plastic. Would it be if he touched it, unrelenting like stone?

The sealed gash on his stomach... he did something like that, right? Years ago, shortly after Stanford, after Sam lost Jess. Sam was sliced on the side by a shapeshifter with a nice assortment of knives hidden inside his jacket, and who better than big brother Dean to slap a little disinfecting whiskey on it and seal him up?

A long horizontal line on the shoulder connecting the remaining arm. He remembered that one, but it would take a lot more than stitches to correct the wound on that girl. Crying, wailing from a pain that went far beyond damage that could be done physically. Dean heard her very essence, her soul, what made this lovely girl so lovely, pierce the air and every molecule that held him together as he cut downward at an angle into her skin, just below the shoulder, stopping before the muscle. A gentle stab down and to the side. And another. And another, making the wound wider. Fileting her like meat because that's what she was. Flesh and teeth and hair and blood. Their pain wasn't real. They didn't know pain. No, not like what he went through. Crocodile tears and a mimicry of pain was all it was, but Dean would take as long as it took to demonstrate to them what torture truly was.

_Libera te ex infernis._

Why Hell? Why Hell now?

Dean cleared his throat. "So a vamp attack isn't anything new. You're implying the new game plan is, though."

"Yeah. I mean, look at him, Dean. Vampires like to play with their food when the mood is right, but this," he raised his hand empathetically to the deceased man, "was absolute overkill. This is what murders do to victims that they felt slighted by, that they had contact with in some way. Normally you punch the guy, drain him, fuck and get wasted until you get hungry again."

"You think our guy Justin here might have known who did this to him?"

"I don't know. But honestly? I would not be surprised at all if someone told me this was a completely random attack. After the interviews today I'm willing to bet on it." He slid the gurney back into the wall and shut the small panel smoothly, confident in his guess.

Dean had to laugh about the concept of Sam betting. "What the hell do you have to bet? Everything but your clothes are mine and that's only because your giant elephant body would stretch them out."

"I could always use something of yours. Long as I put something on the table, right?" Sam winked and walked to the sink to toss out the gloves in the waste bin beside it. He cocked his head to the side and pondered. "I was thinking, is your vinyl of _IV _in good condition? It's a pretty old copy and I figured– "

"Nobody touches the Zepplin! Hell, I don't even touch the Zepplin and I own the damn thing. No touching any of my possessions. In fact, don't bother going on my side of the batcave anymore. I don't trust you and your elephant schemes." There was no intimidating way to slide off gloves, was there? Oh how Dean did try. The hell with throwing them away, too.

Sam nodded to the door; their time here was over. Both brothers walked to it, Sam arriving first and holding the door open. "I try not to venture to the side often when you and Cas are in there. Might hear some things that will keep me up at night."

"I'm willing to bet _IV_," Dean whispered, leaning in toward his pissant little brother, "that if I had a gun, I'd shoot you with it. Right about here." He tapped the bridge of Sam's nose, right between the eyes. "Now can we leave? The lights are fucking creeping me out in there." Sam shook his head, still, after all of these years, enjoying how easily he could set his brother in any direction, usually in one that pissed the holy hell out of him. He closed the door behind them both.

Dean wasn't any safer outside of the room as the same lights lined the cramped hallway leading to the main area at the entrance, the boy not looking any older. Dean ignored them the best he could, stride a little more hurried, not to create distance from Sam but to leave behind a trigger to Hell. After all of these years it was leaking out of the confines of his dreams to his waking life once again. Relapsing. He could only hope that the nausea he currently felt would not be replaced by the thrill and the rapturous ecstasy he enjoyed while butchering and maiming souls in Hell. This Dean was not that Dean. That was never Dean. That one was left in the Pit, shattered like glass when Cas gripped him tight.

Did he ever truly leave? Sam's smile and kidding, Cas' hands in his hair and warm breath on his neck told him he was free, that he left Hell and torture and Alistair behind.

Dreams of hurting Cas not just once but many times over, a reverie of flames and innocent screams. The blood, the burning flesh. No. Hell was still here.


	4. What Is And Should Not Be

Modest homes aligned both sides of the streets, a street most likely named after a type of tree, the irony of which was not lost on Cas. Thick gray clouds that have loomed over this quiet hamlet for several days cast a dull shade to what, under brighter circumstances, would have been lush and manicured lawns, decorative and individualized mailboxes, rose bushes and geraniums lining front door steps, leaves big from summer sunlight and fenced-in gardens housing herbs and tomatoes, ready to be picked. Basketball hoops in driveways stood lone vigilant watch, nets swaying in a light breeze, the weather too foul for children to make use of them or any other outdoor activity.

Not was all desolation. Light brightened most of the houses he could see: a child watching TV or playing a video game while their parent was making a phone call or the babysitter checked up on her friends using a "social networking" website, whatever that was. Cas heard the quiet and steady hum of a vacuum cleaner to his left and delicate vibrations of a wind chime from a house somewhere behind him. About a block ahead on the linear road Cas counted seven vehicles inhabiting the driveway, lawn, and curbside of one home. The anniversary of day America declared its independence from England was tomorrow, so he assumed the amount of people there were gathered for a party tomorrow. Or today, though that didn't make sense. It was customary for American humans to host a July 4th party on July 4th, right? July 3rd might be important to somebody somewhere. Perhaps them? And so early in the morning too...

No birds chirped. The only movement being a twist of leaves and flowers. Desolation it wasn't; rather, it was isolation. The world moved around him, life continued. Day would turn into night, the night into a week, a month, a year all the way until the Sun engulfed the Earth. For him, here and now, he felt as if he only observed these happenings. On the outside, behind the one-way glass, studying without being seen. His being here was nothing, changed nothing, neither seen nor noticed by anyone. Maybe that was for the best. As an angel Casiel had spent his entire existence watching from the shadows, not becoming involved with affairs and conflicts on Earth unless specifically called to, and whenever the situation called for it, he would make himself unseen to spy, eavesdrop or, as he told Dean, to long for what he could not have.

This was different. He was not trying to make himself invisible. No one heeded the strange man walking across their lawns looking as if he were lost or looking _for_ something lost. Were people too busy to notice or care? Sleeping due to the dreary weather?

Castiel was looking for something, but what this thing was he had not a clue. He knew neither its shape nor face, whether it was human or item. The feeling it left him with, a tickle he felt at the base of his neck, was the only tangible lead to go on. It appeared eight days ago but was ignored, thinking it could possibly be a result of Dean taking an interest in his wings again, tracing Cas' shoulder blades with rough hands hoping it would somehow coax the appendages to appear. His complaints of "It's not as simple as touching me" were silenced just as quickly as he said the words, a tingling spreading out from the epicenter of his shoulders, to his vessel's lower back to the very top of his head. A pleasant sensation, but not the cause of unease.

Sam's data about a rise in obscure monster sightings led him to believe that perhaps they were involved also, that the sensation affecting him was also being felt by other creatures and beings. Again unlikely, but too much of a coincidence. The irrationality of the attacks was also a concern. If an unseen force such as this could affect monsters in such a way, how long could it be before he succumbed to it?

This could all be a worst-case scenario, exaggerating something with a simple cause and solution. Angels, resistant to the effects of most magic, were by no means immune; a simple sigil could toss one to the other side of the Earth, weakened and disoriented. Castiel wanted to believe this, that befriending the Winchester boys had changed his reasoning. Assume the worst, even if it's unwarranted. Better to be over-prepared than dead. What looks simple to solve or take out is storing a surprise up its sleeve and you know what, it'll probably lead to the end of the world. So he could be overreacting.

Cas's process was simple: it was either good or bad, a yes or a no, do or do not. The result of his decisions have been either apt or destructively incorrect, but there were no second guesses and no maybes. He could look back on it now and see when that changed. Betraying the orders of Heaven, seeking the aid of demons, desiring to become god with pure intent, and later, Dean. The quick nod of his head in agreement, a stab of his blade were replaced with "Why?" "But what if..." "Is this the only solution?" It was the free will humans spoke of, the boys even sarcastically naming the three of them after the ideal.

But it was so much more than questioning orders and _r__aison d'être. _With such a new insight Cas began to see his Father's creation differently. The world was still beautiful and the humans were still harming it. Living with them, talking to them, interacting and being involved with their emotions was so much a weightier experience than observing from his garrison. Humans were... trying to survive in a world they had little or no say in. Starting wars no one wanted besides the few men who could profit for such a disaster, atrocities and slander in the name of his Father, inhumane treatment of races and genders. Cas could look back now and sympathize with the people he called apes with such disdain. These creatures of repressed will and flesh and blood were no different than his own family. Only children following orders and when questions arose they were treasonous, kicked out of home or country, tossed aside like filth while they were once so loved.

Brothers and sisters were banished from Heaven because of free thinking. Others, like himself, self-imposed exile.

Dean, he thought with a bitter smile. Another solder of a father, and another casualty. He believed his entire life to be doing the right thing, following dad's orders. Kill the bad things, protect your brother. A shock to his entire soul, free will, turned off the imagined superhero projection he put on the man to reveal a stranger but at the same time knew so intimately. He was not a man to be idolized, to mold your life after. Dad was a drunk. Dad forced Dean to raise Sammy while he sometimes hunted, drank himself into unconsciousness, slept with women he could not remember hours later. Dad beat Dean until blood flowed, well into his adult years. Dad never said "I love you," only "That's not good enough" or "You're a goddamn idiot!" A Dad who watched his eldest son not only lose his childhood once with the death of his mother, but again and again with every passing day.

Castiel never told Dean the full extent of his knowledge of his childhood, that he knew Dean, an incandescent wisp of a soul, before he had a body, watching him everyday until it was time. Saying it like that made it appear romantic in a way but at the time it was anything but. Get the stubborn oaf to agree to Micheal and be back home in time for war. Being with him and Sam, watching them converse and laugh and cry and kill, soothing the nightmares in Dean's head as he tried to sleep... They were just like him, trying to survive a life with an absent father, becoming, in the process, men worthy of praise.

Honorable.

The virtue bit hard in his mind, a taunt from deep within. No. He would not think about this now. Torment and loathing could wait. Waxing sympathetic did not help him to find the itch he could not scratch.

What led Castiel here to this specific location was what could be likened to a spectral scent trail, as he had learned after visiting the motel in Missouri the boys had stayed in mere days ago. Normally Cas would not pass on field work, growing more confident if not still embarrassingly blunt while speaking to law enforcement, civilians, and... people. People in general. This is not to say he didn't comprehend the gravity of the task at hand, nor was he uncaring for the suffering of the victims and their family. Proper delivery, a more natural flow of speech, would be difficult to learn quickly after lifetimes of reporting to superiors. Clipped, emotionless, and straight to the heart of the matter was his only diction. While this made it somewhat easier to talk to some people in civic jobs, he still lacked a certain something. To be more personable he would try to add in some type of reference: something he had heard on TV, a song lyric from Dean's music, a passage from a book he was reading. It would only make things worse and thankfully Sam or Dean would smooth the conversation into more stable territory.

Dean had looked surprised when he turned down the opportunity to further practice. In fact, the entire morning Dean had been observing him with an analytical eye. His human did tend to stare longer than he needed to most days, although Cas guessed it was for conformation: to allow his mind to conclude that, indeed, Castiel slept beside him that night or had just kissed him and it really _really _happened.

This morning was not normal. He saw wariness, scrutiny and concern. For what reason? Perhaps he had a nightmare that was about him and was reluctant to talk about it, as Dean often was. The symptoms Dean normally showed during an unpleasant dream were not there so he hesitated to wake him. So instead he let Dean wake naturally. He looked so exhausted, near sickly. He even had a waking dream, thinking something had happened to Cas right beside him. His pallor recovered once he arose but Cas remained never the less unsettled.

Was whatever that was burdening Cas also doing so to Dean? According to his own theory, this sensation was only affecting creatures such as himself and not humans, but again, this was only a theory. Dean did not voice any aches or pains that may have manifested themselves suddenly, but he was not the type of person to groan about a headache or stiff muscles.

He would not tell Sam and Dean anything, not yet. Not until he knew more. What Cas was doing right now, he had no idea what to expect or what to look for, really. Should Dean be unwell and face a threat that would be difficult to handle even under ideal conditions... Cas could heal wounds, but not every wound could be healed. The risk was too great.

He would protect his human. _His _human. Dean had been hurt too many times by him, all in the name of protection and love. Doing the right thing. He would correct the mistakes made. Every hour spent alongside of Dean was a commitment to this unspoken promise. To never again see devastating disappointment and tears glass over his eyes, or snarls of contempt cross his lips. He would make Dean proud, and earn his trust back.

Nothing of import was found in in his return visit to Missouri, the only thing changing being the weather and cars in the parking lot. A search of the two now unoccupied rooms yielded no results, either. The force was not strong here. Perhaps the presence of whatever work was done here, if any was at all, would burn away like a fog until there was no trace left; it had been several days since they had moved on. This may not be the precise location, either. The area of effect was quite large and at this point all Cas could do was land in a spot and hope it was correct.

Here was even more faint, the resonance of energy no more than the impact of a falling feather. But something was here and could still be. The thought of it being a spirit creature such as himself struck his mind. Form without shape. A force free from physical limitation going anywhere as it pleased, spreading itself out thin. But why? Just because it could? To observe the Winchesters and himself? To relay information to something else? Was it even hostile?

Could it be another angel, without a body?

With no regard to possible answers to those question, if something were still here, he was going to make his presence known to it. As Dean found out firsthand in Purgatory, Castiel's mere presence was a beacon for unwanted company, the intensity of his grace lighting the way. This, though, was unintentional. There was no compressing this energy, but amplifying it was simple enough.

With a deep inhale through his nose and a slow exhalation, he focused his attention on his wings. Spreading them out to full length with care, he then concentrated on making them visible, inky black filling the lines like water in a glass. They cast no shadow as they could only be interpreted as one, a visage of something otherwise majestic. But his wings were not only a shadow; they were real, just as much as his fleshly body was. He had yet to meet a human who could perceive the angelic appendages, even those who claimed communion with his Father were unable to view what they should be able to. The truly faithful, the loving, accepting and devoted of people would be witness to such resplendence.

With wings charred black and the ire of his own kind, there was not much magnificence and grandeur left to his name anymore. A detestable angel only in title.

Cas huffed out in annoyance, but used the repugnant emotion to further flare his wings, raising them above his head before sweeping them down sharply, twice, cutting the air, before folding them up to come to rest on his back.

Hyper-aware to all senses, Cas waited for a response. The air remained heavy with humidity, although a thundershower would be passing through from the northwest within fifteen minutes to partially alleviate it. No new noises. The vibration of unknown force did not lessen or intensify. Damp grass and the delightful smell of pancakes filled his nose. Apple cinnamon. In his mind a flash, brief as lightning, of Dean making himself and Sam a breakfast like that. A brotherly argument led to several of the flapjacks being burnt. Not wanting to see something Dean had worked on with -what was up until that point- such care, he ate them. Sam refused to make eye contact with either of them, instead focusing intently on his breakfast and fighting back laughter. Across from him, Dean stared with the intent of slamming his brother's face on the table. Cas did not understand why Sam was laughing, but it was blatantly obvious that Dean did.

Nothing was here anymore. There was no response, voluntary or otherwise, not even a pique of interest. He had expected it. Then why was he unsatisfied? It was for the best: his response to an unknown threat would have been what? Hope it was something he could handle with the skills and knowledge at his disposable? It was a risk, and one that would have to be taken eventually. To know the siren that sang to him, calling him and appeared to call him alone. Castiel would find the source.

He eased the tightness in his muscles and dissolved his wings out of sight. There was one more location to visit before heading back to the motel to wait for the boys, unless they called upon him first which was most probable. Tomorrow he would do the same as more of these areas of high energy displacement seeped into existance every day. Pockets in space appearing to follow Impala as she traveled across the country. The bounty upon all three of their heads made malicious stalking a completely viable option and although there may not be a threat, when isn't there? More enemies are made than allies and most of their allies are dead.

Waiting for evidence was not sound, but it was his only option. He must protect Dean and what he loves most.

His vessel's heart froze like ice in his chest, seizing before resuming its beat. No, that was... He musn't think about that. It was ridiculous, childish even. But it was true. Dean would...

Cas looked up toward the darkening sky and silently cursed many things, most of all himself. The outcome was only natural; Dean could not be blamed for the weakness in Castiel. Whatever pain he might feel was what he deserved. Wrapped up in the awkward affection of the hunter he'd forgotten the three simple words that would undo everything. You're pathetic. This was meant to happen. You ignored what's been in front of you since Dean was a child and now that it is to late do you realize. You are not unique. Dean will always...

No one noticed as the dark-haired man with wings black as a starless night sky disappeared without a trace only yards away.

* * *

"The angel knows."

"Noted," the child dully replied as he plucked a harebell near where he sat on the grass. He gave it a quick sniff before laying back, absorbing the sun's heat. The sky was a picture perfect blue, insignificant cottony fair weather clouds dotting here and there. Green rolling hills stretched on all sides of them as far as these eyes could see. To their right tucked further into a valley was a vineyard, workers tirelessly tending to the fruit, appearing as no more than ants from this distance. Which reminded him, he'd have to try a glass of wine before he left. If humans held parties for it and dedicated gods to it, the drink must not be so terrible. France was as good a place to start with.

She stood over him, casting a shadow over his body. "Yes you have heard me, but the words have no meaning. And..." She shook her head in frustration, a bored look still frozen onto her face. "You gave me your word that we would not interfere with any lives save the two we inhabit."

"So far we have not."

"We _have_. Not intentionally, but the fact remains that we still are. The less creatures that know of our existence the less jeopardy we may find ourselves in." She turned her head to the side, to the diligent humans below. In a softer voice she said, "The moment we made contact we broke that bond. We are... influencing them."

Missing the warmth of the sun, he rose to his elbows and shimmied out of the shadow's cascade over him. "An unforeseen consequence." Would her incessant prattling of danger ever see an end? What was happening to the demons and monsters of this world were events bound to happen in time. Entities with a hunger for death would kill if they were present or not. So they were a trifle more angry in the way they went about it. Was that a cause for such hysteria?

"That is my point," she said as she lowered down next to him, head drawing closer comfortably, confiding with a friend. "What you and I are doing has never been attempted. We observe the shifts safely, unknown to them as we should be. As it has been since time immemorial, avoiding tribulation. But you, you want more. It is not only good enough to watch but to become involved with no care of the consequences not even we know."

"How quickly you changed from 'we' to 'you.'"

"As I am within my right. Only you have presented the qualities of greed and recklessness. I accompanied you in order to retreat at the first sign of endangerment if you chose to ignore it, and with the rising hostility the creatures here have been exhibiting and the angel whom is now following us, I say we depart at this very moment."

"Would it truly be so bad if Castiel were to find us?" He asked to the dying flower he twirled between his fingers more than the woman beside him. The constant fretting and bemoaning was becoming incredibly excessive. Could she just for a moment observe the universe through his eyes?

Her eyes widened incredulously. "Yes, it would be. Angels are keen to the essence of time and universe travel. It would not know what we are, but it would know we do not belong. The angel would-" she darted her eyes to the side, the note of hostility in her voice evaporating, "-see us as a threat as anticipated. Humans may leave us alone, but the humans you have chosen are unique. They would seek us out. No literature exists of our kind, although this does not mean they will not study us as we study them. And that angel..."

Oh, now this was interesting. He sat up crossed-legged and looked at his companion and place the flower beside him, eyebrow raised trivially in curiosity. "Does it frighten you?"

Face remaining blank, she could not help but feel a stab of stupefaction. Why would he- how could he ask such a question? Such idiocy and arrogance. What she knew, who she believed she knew, residing in a being of flesh, one smaller than she, was turning into something she did not recognize anymore.

With a pause that lasted longer than intended, she replied to the insult. "Castiel does not intimidate me, he is but a mere an–"

"No, no. I think it does. In fact, I believe we, not just you and I but our kind as a whole, fear things such as the angels. For all the power we think we have, we cannot use it. You see, we boxed ourselves in with rules of our creation, this sanction of interference. Do not change time, do not impose upon the universes. Watching, always watching. But what if we became a part of time? That is to say, what if we became involved with their history? If through their will or ours, they learned of us, saw us as a threat and declared war? Following bylaws, we could not defend ourselves. But we would be involved by then, existing with them in time. The rules, then, would not apply."

She shook her head. "Not if we allow them to get to that point, which I do not intend to do. That is why we leave. Now."

The two, the shells of a mother and child, lost to their family an ocean away, sat in silence, watching the breeze flow through the grass like water lapping at the shore. Clouds slowly floated their way against the solid blue backdrop. He had no intention of leaving, not yet. This she knew. Whether or not he was determined to make himself known to the Winchester brothers she could not tell; his grandiose boasting of imposing himself may be nothing more than that. To make her become emotional for the sake of showing emotion.

After several minutes of silence, she spoke reflectively. "You are becoming like them."

"A human?"

She paused, almost amused she was considering it at all. "Yes."

"You fear the divine judgment of an angel?"

"Perhaps I do."

With a lightness in his voice, he concluded, "We are more alike than you allow yourself to believe."


	5. Interlude

This was one of the perks of finally having a place to call home: being able to separate still within a comfortable setting. Whenever Sam told someone that his profession -more of a calling- was a hunter, he could see in their eyes the imagery firing like a piston in their heads. Hunting, non-stop hunting. Kill this thing and drive off, dirt and gravel scattering in the car's wake, to the next town to kill some more. The look of disbelief as Sam told them that hunting wasn't always exorcisms and beheadings told him that he, _he_ was the bullshiter in this conversation. Not killing things all waking hours of the day? Sure you're doing your job right?

Along with, yes, the hunting and being a fictitious badass, there was also the not-so prolific moments of downtime. Waiting for an enemy to act first or just boredom between hunts happened, at least in the past, more often than not. The magnet the Winchester name had become over the past several years left for very little alone time, especially concerning demons and angels. Since Dean and Cas returned from Purgatory, these small moments were beginning to return, the in-between where nothing happened and they were all very, very grateful for it. He was pretty sure his brother and the angel especially were.

In the past this had meant symptoms similar to cabin fever: him and Dean were not able to leave each other's side for long lest they get that call from Bobby to get their asses to this place pronto, or one of them got into a bind, usually Dean wanting to put his dick into something it didn't belong in because God knew it was easy to dupe the guy when demons possess leggy brunettes and he hadn't been laid in two weeks. Simply, they got on each other's nerves. Constantly within eyesight or only a thin wall separating them. Hardly considered privacy. And with borrowing the Impala being absolutely verboten, finding other means of entertainment was limited.

With a home of his own, a room of his own and -God how he deserved it- a bathroom of his own, the stress levels for both of them were down. No longer looking at the other, wanting to shove a blade down his throat because they could not stand to be in the same room anymore; eating what he wanted to, when he wanted to. No more waiting on Castiel to stop doing whatever an angel could do in the bathroom and get out. Was he just flicking the faucets on and off? Staring in the mirror?

The nights before heading out were one of those waits. Although the restless anticipation for the drive ahead was now replaced by casual acceptance due to distractions. More rooms than they could have ever dreamed of having, a fully stocked kitchen for cooking on a whim, a library of not only occult literature but actual fictional literature, not updated since the beginning of the Cold War but honestly, Dean and Sam preferred it that way. You could not travel the bunker and not find a new detail in its structure, embellished symbols and markings they had never seen.

And now, Dean's distraction was Cas. Well, Cas' presence was always a vacation from the norm, trying so hard yet failing so miserably to fit in here on Earth, knowing the wrong thing to say at exactly the right moment. Not only had Dean taken him as a lover, but also as a student, even if Dean's own view of the world was askew. His older brother had taken Cas under his wing, so to speak, from the very beginning, when the angel's status shifted from "You're a stranger and I have to kill you" to "Alright, I won't kill you." Since returning from their stay in Purgatory, they've had more time to explore this and beginning in May, a lot more time.

Dean didn't tell Sam exactly when they crossed that bridge to being more than friends. Stolen glances, frequent agreements and personal space being invaded regularly with little complaint told Sam that, yeah, totally May.

The three of them were heading to the eastern half of South Carolina in the morning after a call from Garth nearly an hour after Sam had called him, informing the eccentric hunter of their suspicions about the attacks and requests for any new news.

"You're kidding me, right?" Sam said apprehensively into his cell phone, more of a complaint than a question. A request such as that should have taken longer to get a response. Hell, _any _response to death information should take longer than an hour. An uneasy feeling began to crawl up his body from the very bottom.

"You make the order and I deliver like Domino's, amigo. I don't like that I came across this so soon any more than you do." He truly did sound regretful. Both men remained silent for several moments before Garth continued.

"So, you think this has something to do with you and your brother?"

Sam tapped the pen he was holding to a small spiral notepad on the table in front of him, more anxious than he thought he would be under such typical circumstances. "It's 50/50. With odds like that, yeah. I'm pretty sure we're involved. We can't rule out Castiel, either," he added. There were many potential combinations to this morbid drama.

"I want you to remember this, Sam," Garth's voice took on a fatherly tone. "When you or Dean win the Mega Millions, share the profits for your uncle Garth, OK?"

Sam's smile was painful, but a smile nonetheless. "There's two types of luck and you didn't choose the right one."

There was the hiss of a pop top being opened in the background. "That depends on how you look at it. At the end of the day, you Winchester boys get stuff done. You endanger the world in the process and died–" Sam could hear Garth mumbling, counting on his fingers "–a whole bunch of times but I mean, that's the point, right? The world is still here, _we're_ still here, you and Dean are still here. You guys are walking rabbits feet."

"Lucky for the universe, maybe. That there's two people, well, two people and a protective angel, stupid enough to take on every demonic and hostile force in existence by themselves. We give them the opportunity to keep having good luck by absorbing all the bad."

"Oh come now, Sam-Sam. Don't be such a stick in the mud. I'm willing to bet my sombrero that there are some things that have happened since you became a hunter that you'd never take back. Happy times that can only come from good luck and not the menacing curse clouds you think you live in." A chair's legs scrapped on hard flooring and Garth sat down with a contented sigh. "Hmm?"

"Some." _But not enough to justify living this lifestyle _he left unsaid. Garth Fitzgerald IV, sock puppet enthusiast, ever the eternal optimist. Sam could never think poorly of the man's personality as happiness was such a precious commodity in their line of work, but he wished he would... _recognize _that not everyone could adapt his outlook so easily. As hard as he tried to ignore the pain of the past, reminders as small and numerous as grains of sand caught a sudden breeze and pelted him. Tiny bugbite-like stings over and over again.

He knew Garth could not have had an easy life, but did he ever watch his girlfriend burn alive the same way his mother did? Become a junkie? A meatsuit for Lucifer? Could he ever know?

Sam didn't groan out loud. Not now. This sort of bullshit can wait. Anyway, it's not the guy's fault for acting the only way he knows how. He's help – a huge help. Consumer complaints are at the bottom of the "Helpful Things" list. He and Dean, as well as many hunters, needed help and Garth filled the position after such a devastating loss. The amount of grief and harassment he must have dealt with since then, if Sam ever found out the details, would make most men quit and go on a shooting spree. The new guy, the novice, was patient. He was worth his scrawny weight in gold.

"Well there you go! Some is better than none, right? Because none means nothing and you know what nothing is?"

Oh god.

"I don't know."

"Not you, Sam. You're not nothing; you're _something_. A Sam is better than no Sam."

Oh god...

Sam had to laugh at the absurdity of it all. "What exactly are you drinking right now?"

"Grape soda. Why?"

"Just wondering," Sam grinned.

Dismissing the question as a side effect of dehydration or getting knocked on the head or something, Garth continued on to the point of the call, speaking of a rather brutal dismemberment on the East Coast, where they were heading tomorrow. Since no hunters were working the case yet and the Winchesters practically called dibs on anything open and suspicious, he called Sam back the moment he got hold of the info.

"So, where's the little nerd sending us off to to this time?" Dean asked as he slammed the Impala's trunk shut after several hours of restocking and rearranging supplies, and frying in the afternoon sun. Dean had said it had been a couple months since the mess of guns, bags of rock salt, scattered shotgun shells and ropes tangled like Christmas lights had been straightened out, although his brother knew better. Cas had found Dean's copy of _Cat's Cradle _and would not be disturbed, leaving his significantly frustrated other to fend for himself to find entertainment.

"A town about 45 minutes away from Myrtle." He handed his brother the notepad giving the location and littered with shorthand explanations as he passed Sam, retrieving a water bottle he had left on the steps in a futile attempt to stay shaded. With a grimace that followed the first sip, it must have seemed like drinking soup.

"The beach, huh? Come within miles of a vacation destination and can never enjoy it."

Sam crossed his arms in front of his chest. "I never thought of you as the beach-going type."

"That's because I'm not. Doesn't mean I can't enjoy the view." He winked quickly like the god damn cornball he was.

Sam shouted down to him as his brother descended the steps. "You think Cas would let you let you check out half-naked women and not get pissed?"

A still hand hovered over the heavy door's handle as Dean actually took a moment to consider it. "He, uh... He _appreciates _that I, um, _appreciate _the pleasing forms of others and... You know what? The hell with you, I'm taking a shower. And for taunting a senior officer, _you're _doing laundry," he emphasized by pointing a black-stained finger up. "I did a whole lot of sweating today and after you're done with 'em, even my boxers are gonna smell like a spring meadow."

He finally threw open the door and let it come to rest with a loud thud as he stormed inside, leaving Sam outside to congratulate himself for being able to fluster his sibling so easily at the mere mention of Castiel. Although Dean had probably not even admitted the fact to himself yet because, well, Dean is as stubborn as a cold, but he fell for Cas and he fell _hard_. Until he stopped fighting and denying it, Sam thought of it as his duty as a brother and friend to piss off Dean. It was so hard not to. The idiot was in love and one of these days, unexpected and out of the blue, Dean would slip up. He would say it: Love. And he would be a different man for it.

As Sam was about to return inside to begin packing for tomorrow, Dean opened the door just enough to stick his head through.

"I'm gonna go to that beach someday and I'm gonna look at all the god damn women I want!" he shouted with a voice that said the conversation was over, shut up Sam, you're a dick.

The door came to a close once again.

_Dean will change, but today is not that day._

The white lights from the city nearby tinted the sky with a haze, not enough to coat it but enough to block the stars from being seen. A waning moon finally making itself visible after separating the Earth from the sun, looking as cold as steel. After a scorcher of a day, the relief from the sun was pure magic and Sam could not waste the opportunity to enjoy it knowing the heat would return the next day, as well as rain making for miserable driving conditions all around. He wondered if Cas would be able to survive such a trip, maybe poofing half or even a quarter of the way there. Sam just might tag along.

Moths and various other winged nocturnal insects smacked their otherwise delicate bodies into the few posted lights outside the bunker, their tiny brains unable to discern between the sun and another bright, heated source.

_Going against millions of years of inherited instinct, all for warmth and familiarity. _He drank down the last bit of beer remaining in the bottle. _I can definitely relate to that._

As he leaned up from against the hood of the car to retrieve another from the cooler resting on the trunk, he heard the metallic creak of the door opening. From the angle the car was parked, it was impossible to see just yet but really, who could it be?

Probably Dean, wondering where all the beer went. Sam stole more than was necessary from the fridge, but better to be over-prepared, right? It was a nice night, things inside and out were quiet – of course he was going to enjoy it and whoever wanted to join him could.

Castiel ascended the steps before pausing at the top, looking down at the ground almost timidly. Was he nervous about something? Or maybe waiting for permission. Not that Cas was one to respect boundaries, although he was learning to. Humans typically don't like it when another person hangs over them like a coat, normal ones or insane ones, nor do they tolerate simple things like entering without knocking. Cas still did not see the problem in this but tried to abide regardless.

After a frozen silence, Sam shook a bottle in Cas's direction. "You're free to join, you know."

Cas gradually lifted his head and frowned... but just as quickly looked to Sam, his expression changing to surprise, recalling that he had heard a voice.

"Yes. Uh... I'm sorry," he apologized to Sam as he took the cool bottle from him. "I, um..." Resistant to say anything, Cas twisted off the top as quickly as physics would allow and drank down the amber liquid in gigantic gulps.

Sam laughed and he hopped on the trunk and retrieved another bottle for himself. "Did I disturb a particularly naughty daydream?"

"No," Cas stated simply once he finished off the beer, holding the bottle at Sam who left it hanging for several seconds before realizing that he was supposed to take the damn thing. Because Cas couldn't take the full step forward to put the empty bottle back in the cooler. Sam would have reprimanded the angel if he has expected anything different. Something about being able to appear anywhere with the blink of an eye made the winged warriors lazy when it came to the mundane.

A roll of the eyes was Sam's only response as he took the empty and handed off a new one.

The two drank in silence for a solid five minutes, Cas drinking considerably slower and Sam growing more uncomfortable by the minute as he felt Cas's gaze on him. He couldn't feel any intent in it, malicious or otherwise. It seemed more like he was waiting for Sam to say something, what the something could be was anybody's guess.

Well, _shouldn't _he be saying something? Did Cas want him to... Was it still bothering him?

"What brings you out here?" He asked casually, beginning to formulate a plan to squeeze the truth out of the angel. "Haven't see you all day. Thought Dean might have had you tied up and locked in the dungeon."

"Why would Dean have me tethered?" he replied warily.

"I don't know. Could have been something you did. Or didn't do." The suggestiveness in his voice reminded him way to much of his brother that he felt somewhat dirty afterward. How could Dean keep that up with a straight face? So god damn cheesy...

Cas, as usual, considered this innocent comment more than he should have and Sam could see the cogs and levers working in his head, processing innuendo. The light bulb turned on above his head.

"You refer to the act of sex. Dean would not bind me due to that as we have not been intimate yet."

It took all the the self-control in his soul to not spit out the beer in his mouth, as it did for him to keep upright and seated on the car. This was, oh god. What?

What?

Shock. Panic. Second-hand embarrassment. Terror. Was that nausea? It probably was nausea. He didn't want to hear about his brother's sex life, or a lack of it in this scenario and once the trauma of Cas' words faded a little, just a little, he came to the conclusion that what Cas said, it makes sense. Didn't erase the now vivid imagery of Dean and an _angel of the lord_, his friend, rolling around in bed together and–

Sam moaned and held his head between his hands. That was going to be in his dreams every night until he died.

"I was too detailed." Sam couldn't see Cas, but he could hear the disappointment in his voice.

He took a deep shuttering breath. "Yeah... Yeah, you were."

"That was... personal. I should have known. Dean is your brother and... I'm sorry."

Now Sam too had the wheels spinning and grinding away in his head, Castiel bringing something to light he thought he had forgotten many years ago. Was it relevant? He didn't know, but perhaps Cas did.

If Dean ever found out what he was about to say to Cas, Dean might run him over with his car but Cas, as his lover, deserved to know. Even if it was unproven.

"It's, it's okay. Now you know." He took a long swig of the drink to work up some courage. "Since you busted down the door between courteous and scandalous, can I ask you something?"

"I suppose so."

"OK. Um..." How would he go about doing this? Straight out? Skirt around the topic a little? In which way would Cas respond to better?

Head first and right to the point. Cas might get irritated otherwise and possibly leave for asking trite questions.

"Do you have any idea why Dean and you have never been intimate? No detailed responses," Sam shook his head, "just simple PG answers." He moved the cooler behind him and motioned for Cas to sit down. If things worked out as ideally, both of them would be there for awhile and if Cas were seated he would be less inclined to run off later.

There was hesitation.

The realization slapped Sam upside the head. "No tricks this time. I'm being painfully serious but I can't prove it to until you hear me out. There's some things I want to know and some things you deserve to know about Dean. It might help you understand him better." He cocked his head to the side one last time before Cas guardedly sat upon the Impala.

"So, as I was saying. Why do you think you and Dean have never had sex?" Phrasing it like that made his tongue numb. What other way was there to say something it?

Cas' gaze went between looking at Sam and the ground. "I will try to keep it 'PG' as you say, but to accurately answer your questions I need leeway." Sam nodded in silent approval and he continued.

"Dean is... despondent on that topic of discussion. I have brought it up to him, of course, many times. He is..." He looked aside again, trying to find the correct word. "He is frightened, but it's more than that. The look on his face and the feeling I get, it's more than just anxiety.

"He wants and he wants not, and I fear by not understanding him I am losing him."

Sam smirked. "Well, I think I can ease your mind a fraction. Tell me: Does Dean sleep between you and the door?" Cas looked at him as if he forgot who Sam was. "I mean it! It's a serious question. Does Dean sleep closest to the door, at home or on the road?"

"I, um," Cas stuttered as he continued to view Sam with a raised brow, "I suppose he does, yes."

"Well there's your answer!"

Cas' expression did not change.

"Yeah, I guess you wouldn't understand what that means," mumbled to himself. He continued more loudly. "When we both were kids, right up until I moved to California, Dean would always, _always_, sleep on the bed closest to the door so in case during the night something with bad intentions came through the door, it would attack him first, giving me a chance to escape."

"He sleeps in that position to protect."

"Exactly. I think it's something he never entirely grew out of and even when he's at the ripe old age of dying tomorrow, he'll still be doing it."

"Why does he have the need to protect me? It should be the opposite."

Sam shrugged. "Logically yeah, a shot to the chest is going to hurt you a lot less but like I said, Dean's protective of the people he loves and that's one of the simpler ways of showing it." His eyes softened as he looked at Castiel trying to absorb what he was being told, to tuck away for future reference. "So never doubt for a second that he doesn't love you, because he does. I think the problem is he loves you _too _much and might be why he's hesitant to sleep with you."

Castiel's face flickered briefly, like he wanted to say something and couldn't find his words, or he wanted to say too much all in one go and instead settled to stay quiet, looking at Sam expectantly to continue. Something like that would confuse just about any person.

"Guess I should elaborate, huh? Maybe it's because the beer loosened my lips a little. You have to promise me," his voice dropped, "that you won't tell Dean I told you any of this. Not yet, anyway. My memory isn't exactly 100% and either way, right or wrong, it'll ruffle his feathers big time. Promise?"

"I promise not to say anything to Dean, but I must ask if it is worth the risk, if this information is as precarious as you say it is." The beer bottle was empty at the point and he made no attempt to retrieve another one. Instead, Cas held on tightly to the one in his hand. Sam didn't understand why he just didn't lean over and put it back inside the cooler, which was now close to running out, but Cas had his quirks; let him do what he wants.

"You know what? I... I really think it is. Dean's a little difficult to decipher, given the circumstances and well." Sam stopped himself. "You've been watching Dean his entire life, right, waiting for the correct time to make you entrance?"

"From the moment he was born, yes," Cas nodded curtly.

"So you know a lot of the things that happened to him when he was younger. The fighting, the arguments with Dad. You watched and didn't–" Sam flinched at the venomous glare Castiel was now showing him, blue eyes clouding over, now realizing his choice of words. Once his stomach returned to its proper place after dropping to the ground, he continued on, correcting himself. "I'm sorry: you _couldn't _do anything.

"But something tells me that, even now, you don't understand why my father did that, like how he could be so strict with Dean."

Cas looked down at his hands between his knees, dangling the bottle in a circular motion. The eyes that could make most men cower in fear were now unfocused, viewing nothing in particular. Sam could have passed a hand in front of his face and odds are Cas wouldn't blink, and Sam knew, he knew that far off stare. He had it, Dean had it and most of the people he had ever known had it. It was a face of recollection. Eyebrows lowered slightly, eyes still yet blurred. Cas was remembering in detail -as both an angel's blessing and curse- of every instance Dean suffered mentally and physically at the hands of his father.

At that point Dean meant nothing more than a job, or more precisely, a by-stander; it was Cas' duty to watch and wait and not interfere because it wasn't part of the plan. Sam and his brother were no more than pawns on a chess board, pieces to be used and forgotten, and they were treated as such. So Cas waited until the time to move the piece forward came to fruition.

Now, according to Cas, the sacrificial piece became King. Important, beyond all others, even his own family in heaven. No longer a toy to be played with or a tool to abuse. Dean was Dean. To have that reverent view of him now and to recall so vividly the pain and mistakes of the past, something Sam was sure as hell Cas now thought of as something he could have prevented, must have burned like acid on his insides. Cas wouldn't say it nor would he show it, but Sam knew the fog in his eyes. He was seeing everything.

"No, I... no," Cas said, finally finding his voice. "As long as he wasn't killed, the severity of the episodes were not important." The slight change of tone spoke volumes of the disgust he felt towards himself.

"That's what I'm getting at. To understand Dean as an adult, you have to know firsthand what his childhood was like. It's like that for just about everyone on this planet. The past might not create you in its image, but it definitely shapes you."

Cas only nodded, looking far away, lost in thought. That wouldn't do at all; Cas _needs _to pay attention. Sam gripped Cas's shoulder firmly and shook, hoping to knock the angel back to reality.

"I know you feel guilty and I do, too. Dean got the brunt of Dad's anger and me? Got off easy, every time. I was the baby who didn't know any better and had to be protected. I do something wrong and, god help me..." He looked up to the sky and sighed, in his mind scolding the past version of himself and Dean, questioning the motivation for either of them. "Half the time he'd take the blame. He had every chance to finally, _finally_, get revenge on his burden. The idiot never did."

"Dean has not changed much," Cas said quietly.

"No, he hasn't," Sam laughed sourly.

Crickets filled the void of their silence with song, the moths still vainly flying toward the light in a frenzy. The two of them remained that way for what?– three, four minutes? It felt much longer. Sam didn't bother checking his watch. Cas was typically the soft spoken type so he understood why he might not want to speak, but Sam... This was his story, wasn't it? His hypothesis, his theory, that he was willing to bet his life on was true. The angels didn't need to send him back in time for this. Cas is still here, waiting or lost in thought or both. This is what he wanted.

But how to start?

No bullshit. Don't wait around any longer.

With no introduction, no deep breath or prayer for this to remain between the two of them for all time, Sam began.

* * *

A couple of years ago I recall you saying something like "I'm indifferent to sexual orientation" and I really do believe that. You see the soul first, ask questions later. But I'm sure since you arrived on Earth you've noticed that, especially here in America, that it's not the same for everyone else. I'm also sure that you've watched from heaven and seen what a struggle it's been, I mean, not just in the 20th and 21st centuries, but for millennia for people with a different sexual orientation and even sexual identity. It's not even until recently that they have been recognized as human beings. Still given less rights than corporations, but hey, now we recognize that gay people exist. That's _progress_.

The younger generations have been more open to equality and civil rights, although few of them hold the political power to make changes. The ones that can refuse and give a lot of excuses for their beliefs, one I'm sure you're very familiar with. That doesn't mean all who are against homosexuality are religious, but I'd be lying if I said that wasn't a huge part of it.

I guess the category of "something else" is where my father falls into. Oh, don't get me wrong, though. You know as well as I do that Dean isn't into only men. But... I guess I've always suspected he was bisexual. Suspected because I was young and didn't know anything about sex or the complexities of adult relationships. Mom loves Dad, girls are weird, and that's as far as it goes.

Dean, he... hell, I don't even know how to put this. He... He treated boys his age similar to the girls. Being a flirt was something he always did, even as a pre-teen. I think he's a damn cornball most of the time, but others fall for him. He treated them in a way that my own friends and I didn't. I'd think, "Dean's more mature and has mature friends so of course he's going to act differently than I would, goofing off with my friends."

His friends, the few that he had, shit, the few that we _both_ had, we different, naturally. That's all they were to him; not every friendship leads to a relationship. But there would be people we'd meet from being on the road, young and old, he would be a little too affectionate with. Long eye contact, a coy word, a brief touch. Things like that.

Sex was something he wasn't after yet, as least he told me as much. Around puberty, you're on that cusp between not noticing a potential partner and having your entire world revolve around them. Your voice is changing, your body's changing. You be thankful angels never have to go through it. But anyway, Dean flirted for the attention early on and in the process was figuring out what he wanted, that acting that way with a guy or speaking that way with a guy wasn't bad. It was enjoyable and I'm sure he didn't see that harm in it.

Dad must have seen it differently.

All the times I would ask him "What happened to your eye?" or "Why is your lip bleeding?" and he'd give me some excuse, and I would believe him. Every time. Dad, no, he would never hit Dean. He couldn't. I never heard him. I never saw him. Dean would have accidents, simple as that. It happens.

Dean told me only a few years ago that Dad would hit him over things like mistakes I made, mistakes he made, but even then I knew it was more than what he was telling me. The frequency I'd find bruises and cuts and bumps, there had to be more to it. It was like Dad was finding excuses. Anything that went wrong or, or if he was having a bad day, remembering things he'd rather forget, there was Dean to act the scapegoat.

Once I figured out you and him were a thing, it got me thinking about then, right around the time Dean became a teenager.

The change was so quick I didn't even notice. I can recall the time when he was around 13 that the flirting with guys just stopped. Absolutely. He ignored them completely and his advances toward women became aggressive, so far beyond the lines of a tongue-in-cheek comment and straight into sexual advances. It was a fucking blitzkrieg. Non-stop, every girl he would meet. Almost like he was making up for something, you know?

I guess Dad literally beat it into his head. If I could notice, he had to.

I know I'm painting my dad to be vicious and brutish here but I know, I just know, he wasn't like that. When Mom died, a switch flipped off somewhere in his head. He changed. He lost hope, I guess, and focused solely on revenge. It mutated him into something my mother wouldn't recognize. It... kills me to think of what she saw, wherever she is. To watch the man she fell in love with change so drastically must break her heart.

Dean remembers and I'm sure _that _was the side he idolized, not the Dad I grew up with. So no matter what he did to him, he deserved it. Dad was a superhero; he knew what he was doing. He's only trying to help. So... Dean really did think there was something wrong with himself.

But he changed again when he met you, or when you two became more friendly, to be specific. When Dad died, after the shock wore off, Dean was able to be Dean again. No more living up to expectations, no more being treated like crap, looking for a kind word that he'd never get. It was a weight off. You, though, you... I don't even know how to put it. You, by being with us, made him more open again, kinda like before he became a teenager. He stopped sleeping around as much, even started acting all flirty and I don't think he even notices. It was fun again and not something he had to do.

Somewhere along the way he started to see you as more than a friend and even now it scares the hell out of him. I think he still hears Dad in the back of his mind, berating him and scolding him. Now I know it's not as simple as that, saying "Oh, that's his problem" and nothing else could be interfering, but I'd say that's a pretty big issue. Every time he'd look at you, every time he _looks _at you, he hears Dad. He's dead and they're still arguing.

So remember that any time he's a little curt with you or says something that might offend you, he's dealing with a whole hell of a lot of things and doesn't mean a word. We both know he's an emotional guy. Being a little rough is one of the only ways he knows how to show love, especially to you. I know it's taxing and you might wonder if it's worth it, but trust me: it is.

* * *

"To go against Dad's word and rebel," he said with a chuckle, "he _must _love you. But I guess you already know what that's like, huh?"

No sooner than when Sam stopped talking, Cas asked, "Why are you really telling me this?"

Sam was a little confounded. His reply to such an epiphany was not related to it at all and instead questioned his integrity. What is the angel thinking?

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sam blurted out.

Cas sighed. "There are times I wonder how you feel towards me. You can be... hostile." Steel eyes stared into Sam's own. "What do you have to gain?"

Hostile? Gain? What is this about?

"Oh... Oh, shit," he said aloud unintentionally.

He knew exactly what Cas was talking about. In the past he had said some pretty thoughtless things to Cas and he hoped the angel would just let it be, to take a snide and back-handed comment like he usually did. His kind does not forget. Cas could recall every word. Right now was his opportunity to bring it up and Sam was certainly not prepared for it, nor could he walk away without getting cornered.

"Cas, man... This could become really awkward and I'm not sure this is the best time."

"This is the most felicitous time, Sam," Cas said sternly. "If you can speak about Dean openly behind his back, you can answer my questions, in any manner you choose."

"I have answers, but I'm not... damnit." He pinched his nose, debating with himself. "Things might get really weird between us and–"

"Things are already 'really weird' between us, Sam," Cas pointed out.

Well, he certainly had a point. Was it enough?

"You really want to know, huh?" Cas nodded. With a groan, Sam simply stated: "You should have been _my _angel."

He expected the irrational look Cas gave him and would have found it amusing if he wasn't so maddeningly uncomfortable.

"What I mean is, I was the one who believed in you and since you were so focused on the job I don't think you realize just how excited I was to meet you.

"You treated me like shit, Cas. To you I was only the boy with demon blood in his veins, an abomination. Abhorrent. I dreamed of the day I would meet an angel and you..." He could feel the water collecting in his eyes and forced with all his willpower to hold them back. The pain was something he'd forgotten about, and not only the pain of being dismissed.

"Angels do not tend to be what most humans perceive them to be," Cas said innocently enough.

"But I wasn't just another human," Sam spit back, with more resentment than he intended. "You could have acted kinder but you chose not to. It was a conscious decision to treat me like you did."

"This still does not explain why you are helping me. Actually, it makes things more perplexing."

"It's because I never hated you," Sam stated, become more exasperated as time went on. There was simply too many thoughts he'd rather leave unsaid and Castiel was making that quite hard for him. Choosing his words carefully was becoming exhausting. "I have my own internal drama to deal with and... no. It was never like that."

Castiel leaned in closer, scanning Sam's face as if looking hard enough would unlock a secret, which Sam supposed was exactly what he was doing. Not only was Cas too close to him, but he was going into territory he'd rather leave untouched. Dean didn't need to know, Cas didn't need to know. Cas is doing what he does to Dean, stripping down his soul bare for scrutiny, but it can't be as harsh as that. He does it only because he deserves honesty, something Dean cannot be without becoming tenaciously resistant He's invading and it's so uncomfortable, Cas, please...

"Knock it off, Cas. You're looking right through me. We don't tend to like it when–"

"You're jealous," Cas declared guilelessly, in a tone no different than commenting on the weather. Well, Cas could be on fire and that's what he'd still sound like. It wasn't like he insinuated that he was jealous of his own brother's relationship. No. Just another breath. Another sunrise. Another baby born. Completely natural and mundane.

Sam wanted to laugh in Cas's face, to find it positively uproarious that Cas could be so comical, not to mention idiotic and uninformed. He wanted to look him in the eye and say "That's possibly the most ridiculous thing you've ever said in the long history of ridiculous things you've ever said," but it wasn't.

In a way, Cas was correct. There was no point in trying to conceal the truth from him because he already _knew_ the truth. Cas could go under, over and around any mental blocks anyone dare try to put up because the soul was a different entity entirely: something vulnerable and naked. Yeah, Castiel could see the truth in everyone. Honesty. He may not know how to interpret the information, but having someone with that ability use it on you was invasive and terrifying and intense. Being stripped at your very core, a spotlight directly upon you, emotions buried under layers of justification or shame.

Sam repeatedly opened and closed his mouth like a fish starved of air, trying to say something back and failing. How could... How do... What happens now? How do you answer something like that. Well, the answer was already given; showing his work would be much more difficult.

"I... It's..." Sam groaned before caving. "I'm not jealous of you two. In fact, I'm elated that Dean seems to be his old self when he's with you. You know; he laughs a lot more. I'm envious of -and I know how bizarre this sounds so just stick with me- I'm envious of how he," he mumbled off, beginning to flush with discomfort, "...how he lucked out."

The look of utter confusion on Cas' face, head tilting, eyes darting to the side, made Sam yell out. "See! I told you it was weird and that's why I didn't want to talk about it! But you had to press and now I feel guilty and a little dirty."

"Be quiet and elaborate."

"Um..."

Sam could not argue with the fierce glare. And to think that's how Cas looked on a pleasant day. How could such a man-child be so intimidating?

"Dean fell in love with an _angel_, and an angel fell in love with him. He found something immortal that didn't want to kill him and he returned the sentiment mutually. Humans are frail. It doesn't take much effort to kill us, but creatures like you -immortals- are durable. People we love have a tendency to die and someone like you, the chance of getting hurt goes down."

Cas nodded. "So you envy Dean because he partnered with a non-hostile immortal."

"You could say that, yeah." He rubbed his eyes; suddenly, he was exceedingly tired.

Much to Sam's surprise, Cas stood up and looked down to him almost sadly. What had happened to him in the brief span of time? How quickly he drew inward made Sam question if it happened at all. He knew pleading and badgering Cas for an answer would lead him nowhere; questioning didn't work like that with beings that could teleport.

With arms drawn tensely at his sides, Cas managed to say "I wish I could see this circumstance with the same perspective as you" before vanishing, leaving Sam with his hand raised to keep Cas with him and grasping only air instead of a rough tan coat.

Sam couldn't figure out what had just happened. What did he say that, for the first time he could recall, hurt the angel instead of angering him. Was it something about being immortal? What could be wrong with that?

Of all the time for Dean to not make an appearance to check up on him or Cas, it had to be tonight. He better have a damn good excuse. Better not be napping.


	6. In The Dark

"OK, then," Dean said with a huff as he took a seat on the driver's side of his car, slamming the door shut as Sam did the same beside him. "Something's definitely not right with the attack, but so what? You think this is related to us somehow?"

"Well, when was the last time we were in this state?"

"Years, easy. The two of us must've been kids." The eldest brother shook his head. "But these vics are from places we've been to within a month. Doesn't fit the pattern."

"Think our stalker could have made a pit stop?" Sam submitted with a slight shrug of his shoulders. He too was trying to make some iota of sense from the murders and benign pursuer or pursuers, grasping at straws and treading on the thin line between realistic and regular bizarre explanations. "Since we've been there before, they might be looking for something. Maybe something Dad left?"

Skeptically, Dean agreed. "Since we're as clueless as Miss America applying for a grant from Mensa, your guess is as good as any." He turned on the ignition and began backing out of the mortuary's parking lot. "My gut tells me that's not it, and I do have a pretty trustworthy gut if I must say so."

"You didn't have to say so and yeah, your killer instincts have saved us from harm plenty of times," Sam said with a roll of the eyes.

Before pulling out onto the road Dean sharply tapped the brakes, sending Sam chest-first into the dashboard and forehead knocking onto the windshield. The force was not great enough to form bruises later on, but the suddenness of the motion was enough to make him vociferate in surprised shock. He sat back in the seat limply with his hand on his forehead, rubbing the bump and a gnarl of distaste rippling over his face directed right at Dean.

"The hell was that for?!"

Dean pointed at the road in front of him naively, blatantly playing it dumb. "Chipmunk. Didn't want to hit it." His eyes widened in mock horror as he gasped. "You weren't wearing your seat belt! I thought I taught you better than that, young man. That little bump to the noggin could have been prevented."

"You know," said Sam grumpily as he twisted to click the safety apparatus, "You've become a real idiot since you and Cas started dating."

The Impala smoothly pulled out onto the road, windows down, black paint absorbing the near molten rays of the sun. Morning rush hour traffic dispersing, no gigantic yellow buses holding everyone up for summer break. Makes for a good ride.

"Incorrect, baby bro," Dean was quick to point out. "I've always been an idiot." A quick wink and click of the tongue; put another tally mark under Dean's name.

"_Any_way," Sam lightheartedly stressed as he punched Dean's shoulder with the discipline of someone who had just told a bad joke, which Dean excelled at and would have been voted "Most Likely To Die From Telling One Too Many Hackney Jokes" in high school if he had graduated. "Where does that leave us? We confirmed a strange kill but found no clues."

"Incorrect again." As the car gained speed, both men had to increase the volume of their voices to be heard over the wind gusting through the windows, whipping Sam's mane in a way that was both hilarious and endearing. One side sticking nearly straight up in the air, the other side with loose strands pelting his face. He always wondered how women and Sam could deal with it. One day of that and Dean would shave himself bald.

"We know some vamps killed him, right? I'm pretty sure they're a not-quite living and breathing clue. Find ourselves a nosferatu and I'm pretty sure we'll find a clue."

"Is that your gut speaking again?"

"Damn right it is," Dean boasted with a self-satisfying grin.

_With that attitude, it's nothing short of a miracle we're still alive_, Sam thought to himself.

"So, where are we heading now?" With his body temperature beginning to rise once again after being chilled in the storage area of the morgue, Sam began to rid himself of the heavy suit jacket, awkwardly restrained by the seatbelt which he not dare remove just yet, tossing it in the back seat, tie chucked over his shoulder haphazardly next. It wasn't much relief, but it would do.

"How 'bout we head back to our rooms and change? I see you're halfway there already." Dean glanced over to the side as Sam tried to comfortably readjust himself in his seat again. "After that I'll call up Cas to see if he wants to tag along while we go nest hunting. The more the merrier."

Sam hummed in agreement.

"What's that?"

"What's what?"

"You know. That... That humming."

"I don't know. Is it supposed to mean something?" Sam inquired as he raised an eyebrow, becoming puzzled.

Grumbling like he too wasn't sure where he was going with this, Dean said, "You're implying something." If Dean's learned anything over the past month, it's to never take anything Sam says at face value. There's a euphemism, a disguised joke, or a set-up in there somewhere. Dean knew his brother was simply having fun at his expense, and there was nothing wrong with that. It was the sheer amount of times Sam got the upper hand, him knowing Dean's vulnerable point -more often than not being Cas- and attacking, knowing his psychologically stumbling brother couldn't attack back. Winning without even trying.

A constant checkmate.

Sam merely sighed and looked out the window, hoping Dean's paranoia would evaporate on its own, and also hoping he wouldn't notice a hand smoothing back his hair every so often in small attempts at maintaining control of it.

Outside of the car, life continued. On the inside, as Sam thought of it, existed a place outside of time, out of reality. Even Dean had brought up the fact that driving down roads like these, quaint residential roads lined with trees that probably bloomed so heavily with flowers it fell as heavy as snow in the wind, the name of the family in a curly typeface on the mailbox instead of just a number, backyards in the process of preparing for the holiday celebration of cooked meats and sun-spoiled potato salads, tire swings hanging from wide branches – looking at these things from inside the bubble that was the Impala was like watching a television show. Images in front of you would flash by, bright colors and faces and shapes, but that's all they were. Nothing was tangible from here. That life. The life they thought was there right in front of them, impossibly close, and a touch was all it would take to reveal that you were touching glass. That life there on the screen is in another world.

This ethereal sensation was brought to Dean's attention years ago, not long before Sam went into the Cage, the threat of the apocalypse a certainty weighing a heavy burden upon both of them. After a dining experience that felt much like a last meal (neither one of them were hungry much in those days), Sam found himself immobile on his way back to the car, staring across the road. When Dean did not hear the click of the other door opening, he looked aside to see Sam standing still near the entrance, wearily contemplating something. After calling to him twice, Sam was knocked out of his trance.

"It's strange, isn't it?"

"What's strange? Everything? Sure is, now get in the car," Dean said, slapping the roof hood for emphasis.

Sam walked to the car with leaden steps: avoiding admission, avoiding fate. With every exhalation, hope left his body. Instead of opening the door, he looked across the road again. "This is."

Dean followed his gaze with a wary eye. "What, a park? Nothing too crazy about people walking their dogs and kids playing soccer."

"But that's exactly my point," he lamented. "Don't you see something like that and think 'I don't belong here'? Like we live in one universe and something only feet away belongs to another?"

"Don't have an existential crisis here, Sammy. Things are bad enough," Dean laid down firmly. The pressure, the nerves were starting to get to him. Couldn't blame the kid, but Dean needed him _here_, functioning at full potential.

Sam's lips turned up so slightly, still an emotionless gesture. "I know you've felt it too. We get banged up on a hunt and need to go to a pharmacy for some supplies. Two guys walking in together, cuts on their faces, limping, and checking out like they weren't bleeding. That's our universe. Then we intrude on... that." He raised a hand to the small open park in the middle of the town. Though the day was overcast, people still enjoyed the space, grass lush from spring rains days before. Young children ran, not playing any game that could be deciphered by an adult, anyway. An elderly couple, both with hair as white as cotton, came to rest on a bench.

There was a point to that, and Sam was not incorrect in implying that Dean had never felt the same. The control he had over it was perfected over the years. Though reminders existed everywhere and were unavoidable, like many emotions, he went numb to it, addressing it and banishing it.

He used to have an analogy for it.

"It reminds me of a scene from _Reservoir Dogs_."

Sam goggled at him. "What?"

"Come _on_! You know the one I'm talking about. When Blonde decides that he's gonna have himself a pig roast, he takes that long walk outside to the car to get the gas. As he's walking, Steeler's Wheel begins to fade out and you can hear kids, fucking _kids_, in the background, playing. It's a bright day, sunshine and lollipops in California. You'd never know that only yards away there's a man being tortured to death. And that's what you're feeling. Now get in the car, would ya?" Without another word or gesture, Dean hopped in as did Sam, albeit much more flustered.

"So what you're saying is..."

"What I'm saying is that we're Mr. Blonde. Hell, for all the torturing we do, I'm pretty sure we are," Dean said, as if it were a compliment. "We're walking death, like he was, and like you said, we're invading. Except we're aware of it; Blonde was a different level of homicidal looney toon and thought of what he was doing, murdering and robbing and who the hell knows what else, as normal. Justifiable, even. We look at them," his eyes darted to the park patrons, "and see normal, universe A. Then there's our universe, universe Everything Is Awful."

That was their life, behind the bubble, observing their reality and the one of the general public at once. It made you want to catch your breath, the sensation leeching up your stomach and sucking the air out of your lungs. Gasping, trying to find a lever to lift you to either level; being caught in between worlds would tear you in two. The hunter. The 9-to-5.

A killer. A parent.

Sam closed his eyes and took a deep breath, pulling himself out of the in-between. That's not his universe, not yet. It was something he knew he could achieve again. How Dean would react to his life of ignorance he could easily imagine, but right now, this was much simpler.

"You and Cas are married."

The hand that was removing his tie fumbled dramatically. "God damnit, I knew you were holding back!"

* * *

Before the door to his room could close, Dean's shoes were toed off and flung nearly halfway across the room on his way to turn on the air conditioning – until he left, anyway. With that out of the way, the rest followed suit, leaving his shed clothes in more of a heap than a pile next to his bag. With a gripe and a groan he rummaged through it to find a pair of one of his more worn in pair of jeans and hmm, dark green shirt?– it's clean– dark green sounds good. A blind search under the bed revealed his boots and it was time to head next door to see if Sam was was ready to get this show on the road.

A wandering eye led him to scan the room, the inclination materializing out of nowhere. His clothes strewn on the dull maroon-colored carpet, pants pocket containing the false FBI badge emptied onto the table in the kitchenette. A miniature garbage bin full of fast food paper cups and crinkled paper bags from the ride over yesterday. Drawn curtains filtered the sunlight into a dusty white. The air, though cool, was heavy. Heavy with what?

He looked from corner to corner, wall to ceiling, and there was... nothing. There was no proof, no evidence that anyone other than Dean inhabited this dim room. Absolutely no tell-tale signs. No toothbrush, no clothes or bag. Toothpaste for one, shampoo for one; that food the other day was for one. There was no trace of Cas here absorbed by any of the senses. His gaze fell upon the bed. Was Cas even there with him last night? Did this morning happen at all? Strange dreams, time lapsing...

Cas is gone now, to a place he did not say and perhaps did not even know. His shadow here was becoming a haze upon waking from sleep. Not here. Cas left me. He's gone. Intangible, water running through his fingers.

It was desolation, wasn't it? Cas' warmth, his presence, his smell; _he_ was being replaced with a loneliness more powerful than an angel's grace. Oxygen morphing into decaying smog, attaching to his throat, his lungs and amassing. So thick. It wasn't clean anymore. The strikingly crisp scent of ozone had evaporated in an instance. Bright blue eyes, chastising or surprised or flustered staring across a forest or an inch away from his own became an empty film reel. Stubble under his hand, tongue and lips against his own. It's false, right? That didn't happen last night. He only had his memories and those couldn't be trusted.

Cas, you're...

...A stubborn son of a bitch, aren't you?

_With growing agitation, Dean sighed and tossed the dark-handled blade, slippery with cooling blood, onto a rusting cart. The squeak from the wheels was all part of the charm. Good for grating on the nerves and increasing dread of those fortunate enough to be on the slab or chained up, because posture was key. Torture was so much more than the pain and blood and sweat. It was withdraw, the absence of pain when one was expecting it, keeping them on edge. A kind caress, a kiss to the forehead or lips after cutting off a finger or two, complimenting on how courageous and brave they are and shortly thereafter begin a verbal assault listing with overwhelming bravado everything the person has done wrong in their life. You deserve this. I'm only giving you what you want, otherwise you would have never said those things._

_When Dean does a job he makes sure he does it damn well. Castiel was making sure this session didn't go Dean's way._

_The knife joined many other bloodied tools – so many blades a butcher would feel inadequate, some plain, others decorated and imbued; hammers; needles for all needs and purposes, 12-inch knitting needles down to acupuncture (for more delicate tasks); rope; Cas's angel blade which so far has remained untouched; holy oil which he was waiting for just the right moment to use and the direction this charade was playing into, that moment could be soon._

_None of these things would kill the angel (could he use the angel blade successfully?), but that's how torture usually works, doesn't it? The name of the game isn't eradication, but admission or change of perspective, break down a person into insanity. When the threshold for pain is breached, vision coated in red and body a white fire, truths are told, the conscious mind unable to control itself. Dignity is lost and begging begins. That was satisfying, too. Pleading, bargaining. Hilarious. How many times has Dean found himself in the same situation only to have his torturer continue? Why should now, with him in the place of judge, be any different?_

_He grabbed a rag draped across the cart's handle, but once noticing the cloth was drenched and dripping with gore and chunky strings of viscera, he dropped it with distaste. _I'm tryin' here, Cas, I really am.

_An embellished sigh hissed inside the barren room, dark as the abyss save for a singular low-watt lightbulb hanging several feet above and away from Cas, casting an orb of yellow light around him; a spotlight, or a barrier that protected against nothing. The humidity was beginning to leave Dean's skin a sticky mess, pants and shirt clinging, but any discomfort was irrelevant. Water dripping from a pipe which didn't seem to exist at all within that small pool of light had been dripping long before Dean arrived with Cas, blanketing the floor with the slightest layer. Cas' blood mixed with it (once his slacks had become too saturated to hold any more), spreading it further and further away, the dilution turning the gray concrete pink._

I wonder if angels can bleed out_, Dean thought out loud as he took the cart with a lazy hand and pulled it closer to Cas._

_He looked exhausted. Well, he _was _exhausted. This dance had been going on for what could have been hours: time is an illusion here. Dean had shackled Cas to the wall, timeworn iron embossed with symbols to keep his dear angel from flying away, similar marks which allowed to bind Cas long enough to arrive at this location. Back against the wall, his arms, spread out like a Y, were the only things keeping him upright. Angels registered pain differently from what humans would recognize it as, but they still felt something and that special something weakened them. No different than a human. Their bodies could be broken like a human. Was their mind so far off?_

_A bare torso displayed the craftsmanship of Dean's work so far. Red. So much red. Truly a miracle that the body contained so much blood. Every slice, every stab, was deliberate; nothing random to be seen here. Delicate paper thin lines carved lengthwise along the ribs, and upward thrust between then with a serrated knife, puncturing the lungs (avoiding the heart of course as one couldn't be too careful). Some he carved to the side, tearing and shredding skin and organs, catching bone once in awhile. His arms shared a similar latticed pattern, shoulder to wrist and perfectly straight as the angel did not struggle against it. The way the cuts gaped open as he spread them was positively intriguing; they reminded Dean of scales. On his stomach a small wound became much larger as Dean pondered what Cas's insides felt like. The original size could only envelope the one finger; a stab with a larger knife and a twist of the handle widened the wound, blood absolutely pouring by then. Three fingers was the accommodation, which was good enough._

_Warm. No. Damn near molten. Wet. Spongy and lumpy and slick at at once. The simulation of sex wasn't lost on Dean. Hell, he entertained it. A single digit tracing along the outside before gradually pushing back in. Another finger, and another. Faster, harder, pushing into and pushing past intestines and blood, more blood. Curling his fingers and pulling back so hard Cas' slack body lifted off from the wall._

_Languid patterns covered most of his chest, whatever popped into Dean's head. A prefect rectangle of missing flesh stood out boldly beneath his collarbone. That was his signature, wasn't it? An artist always signs his work. The edges were so clean, pink pectoral muscle a shocking distraction from the blood. He wanted to admire it so badly._

_Castiel, ever rebellious, just wouldn't give him what he wanted._

I'm really not asking much of you, Cas. Three words. Even you can manage that... _He delicately lifted Cas' chin up, brushing a thumb against his wet lips. _...Right?

_Through everything -the cuts and the stabs, the punches and slaps, taunts and broken fingers- Cas said nothing. Not a word, not a syllable. Hardly a whimper escaped his mouth. He endured it. His face would tighten, mouth opened and teeth barred. Silence was the only response to Dean's ministrations._

_Dean tapped the bundled needles from Cas' left eye socket. _You don't even flinch. I'd be damned impressed if I weren't losing my patience.

_Cas tried to to take a deep breath, tried with what little strength he had left in his body. The tickle of a wheeze in his throat sent him into a coughing fit, red dribbling down his chin which he attempted to cover from Dean by turning his head aside._

Oh, no, no, don't you dare look away, _Dean barked, finding the gesture absolutely offensive. He grabbed the back of Cas' head and pulled back as far as he could. The good eye winced shut but again – only silence. _You don't want me to see how badly this hurts you. Putting up a good front, I'll give you that, but I can tell. I know you too well for this. _Dean got in closer, lips ghosting over Cas' neck, resisting the temptation to bite. To sink his teeth in, warm blood pumping from the severed jugular and tissue filling his mouth just sounded so right. But that would only prolong this game. Cas could break. Cas _would_ break._

_He released his hold on the dark, wet hair, Cas' head limply falling, and still close enough to exchange air with him. _This is killing you. Ya won't even look at me anymore. But I guess it's hard to look at me since I deflated that eye of yours, huh? _He groaned when Cas didn't respond. _Let's get this straight. This stopped being fun for me a long time ago. What I'm doing now is just... not enjoyable. It's feeling like a job. Something you enjoy doing shouldn't feel like work, right? 'Course not. So let's end this, for the both of us.

_A short sigh escaped from Cas, a phantom of a whisper._

Hmm? Couldn't hear ya.

_Cas struggled in his chains, frustrated he could not get enough air into his lungs to form words. If Cas wanted it bad enough, he'd find a way. He shuddered and tried to scream, which came out as nothing more than deep bubbling gurgles._

Can't...

_The tremors continued as Cas fought for control. Dean could tell where this was going and did not like it at all._

What's this 'can't' negativity about, Cas? 'No' and 'cannot' aren't the answers I need. Try again, please.

_Cas mouthed words, looking almost like a fish, until something came out._

You... Scared... Don't be–

Whoa, whoa, hold on, babe. What the hell am _I_ scared of? Not sure if you remember this but I'd say, oh, not three hours ago I finger-fucked a hole in your abdomen. I think you got it backwards.

_More coughs seized Cas, the sounds coming from his chest like nothing Dean had ever heard. _I won't... leave.

_Enough. Enoughenoughenough. No more of this resistant pride bullshit. No more playing the hero. No more playing at all. This drama has reached its climax. Dean had never lost his cool doing this before, not ever. Cas' insubordination was intolerable and would not go on any longer. He grabbed the angel blade from the cart before kicking it over, metal scattering across the ground with a racket. If Cas would not submit to normal measures, Dean would have to scheme up a method more suited for this angel._

_Temper getting the best of him, Dean struggled to retrieve the key for the shackles from his back pocket with his free hand and after several failed attempts to find the lock, he undid the clasp and held Cas as the broken man's legs gave out. _'fraid you're gonna have to stand for this one, _Dean grunted, attempting to keep him upright and turn him toward his bound arm, which folded stiffly under him. As drained and mutilated as Cas was, Dean could not risk undoing the other arm: the binding symbol that decorated both cuffs prevented Cas from any and all uses of his abilities, turning him into a mere pincushion made of flesh. Undo the bond and who knew?– Cas just might have enough energy to ride on out of here._

_A forearm pressed against Cas' neck, using Dean's own body weight to hold this fucking hard-headed idiot upright_. _He seethed near his captive's ear: _Know how much I hate you for making me do this? Even I have some standards because I'm too damn _good _to resort so certain types of mutilation. But you... you can never make anything easy. Hard to understand, hard to tolerate – why the hell did we put up with you?

_Cas sighed out again, failing to answer._

See what I mean? God damn worthless. Only good for a lift and free surgery. Now here's the deal, _his voice changing, a businessman making a proposal. _You say what I want to hear and I let ya go so you're free to heal and fly the coop or whatever. This will never happen again. Or, and this is the option I'm pretty sure you're going to take because you're a fucking idiot, you gasp for air and clam up which leads to me using this blade of yours in ways that will make you scream and wish for death. You'll beg for option A again, but no backsies. _Dean pressed even harder into Cas. _Pick your poison.

_The blunt edge of the blade caressed Cas' side._

Come on, Cas.

_Traveling up to nudge his chin._

End this for the both of us.

_Though Dean could not see his face, the rise and fall of Cas' shoulders signified the struggle for command over his ruined body. Be patient just a little longer. He just might surprise you._

Dean, I...

_He just might do it...?_

I...

I still love you.

_Dean's yell could have woken the dead. The demons of hell and the angels of heaven would have paused in confusion. He didn't know his body could produce that sort of sound; the capacity to form words melted away and this was the result. Frustration and rage and incomprehension and failure was all he could see and all he could hear. This was the language that had no need for words._

_He grabbed a handful of slick dark hair and smashed his head forward, the disgusting crack of bone and snap of a broken nose satisfied nothing. With a hand drawn back as far as it could reach, Dean drove the blade down into Cas' shoulder blade and bore down, white light emitting so purely from something so unclean._

_And then Dean heard it, something he had been waiting for who knows how long. The vessel's body tensed as if electricity surged through him, head thrown back nearly bumping into Dean's own. But the noise coming from Cas was not his, as a man: it was Cas's voice. This is what Dean had wanted from the beginning. Cas using Jimmy's vocal cords to express discomfort or pain would have been nice, but this, _this_ was affecting Cas on a different plane of existence entirely. _

_This was wounding Cas the angel and better yet, it was going to get worse._

_With mouth open from shock or whatever the case was, Dean didn't really care, the angel spoke to him. The ringing in his head was intense, the screams coming in all directions outside of him much like the day he first spoke with Dean, but that was all. He knew that this is all that would happen. There might be a headache later. That was fine._

Scream all you want, babe, but I'm still not done yet, _Dean grit through his teeth as he withdrew the knife and thrust it into the other shoulder blade, giving it the same treatment. _

_Cas was spent. For whatever reason -blood loss, mentally drained, a dulling of the body's senses, maybe a combination of everything- he was not fighting back. The shaking of the ground and swinging of the light above their heads was an undeniable sign that this was effective, the crying disturbing all matter within range of it. Maybe Cas chose not to fight back, putting up some vain attempt at defense. Well that suited Dean just fine._

_The ringing faded as Dean pulled out the blade. _You know exactly what I'm doing, don't you? You could have stopped it if you only fucking said so, _he yelled, voice and ears adjusting to the silence once again. God, how he wanted to shove this blade right into Cas's head, the entire thing, straight through. Let him die and be over with. It's what he deserved and was something he'd receive, but not yet._

Dean_, Cas choked, maybe through adrenaline able to find solid ground for his voice._

Oh no, you son of a bitch. I don't want to hear it.

_Cas slumped his shoulders and was hoarsely able to manage: _Will it make you feel better... to...

What the hell are you talking about, Cas? _he growled, pointing the angel blade at the base of his neck. This was getting unnerving. Cas was talking too much._

If you sever my... my wings... _He coughed, spit and blood falling to the floor. _Will that make you happy?

_There was no condescension in his voice, one that could have vilified Dean, made him out to be a spoiled child who just had to get his way. It was... pious. Sacrificial. Like... Like he knew he was doing the right thing._

_Martyring himself for someone who he would sacrifice everything for, no questions, no hesitation._

_But that's what Cas always did, right? His life for the Winchesters?_

_Dean was taken aback and almost did have to move away from the blow. Keep going. No relenting. It was all some sort of distraction._

The fuck are you going on about?

_Cas grabbed the chain weakly with both hands as the light glowing from stabs on his back flickered, as if something were being passed in front of them._

I don't know what you're planning, Cas, but you're smart enough to remember that your grace can't hurt me, _Dean said, lacking any conviction. He dropped the arm restraining Cas and heard the jangle of the chain as his entire body weight pulled against it. The impulse to do so, and to back away, was unbearable and confounding. What was he doing? You're supposed to see this through. Make him bleed, make him cry, shatter any preconception of love he had or thought he had._

_-I hate you-_

_He didn't want it anymore. God, he just didn't _want _it. Why couldn't you just say it, Cas? Stop caring, stop needing. Let me go. Just stop._

_Dean nearly slipped as he continued to stare at the true nature of Cas, the illumination growing even brighter and turning near icy blue. A shadow, formless in shape like a mist, hung above Cas' head, trailing down, down._

_Becoming solid._

_Black like a void. A dreamless sleep, one that went on for eternity. The fine details had not materialized yet, perhaps Cas lacked the strength to do it as vigorously as what was normal. Tucked in close, covering himself like a wounded animal doing the only thing it could to protect itself before it succumbed to death anyway._

_They weren't opaque this time, as Dean normally saw them This was Cas unrestrained by the limitations of a physical body. Pure, raw. The gouges from the angel blade had freed what Dean wanted to destroy._

_In the blink of an awe-struck eye, everything was in focus. It wasn't right. Wrong. His wings were wrong. The shape was all he imagined it to be, but the rest was..._

_The blade slipped from his loose hold, the drive to harm and truculence deflating from his body in a heaving sigh. It wasn't supposed to turn out like this. Control, when was his control? A cocky attitude along with deadened empathy made him perfect. The only thing he could see, the only thing he could hear was his goal of absolute psychological domination. Dean had complete precedence for the first time in his life._

_Whether Cas saw it this way or not Dean was unsure, but he now had the advantage. He took control by desiring the pain, displaying such a vulnerability willingly for Dean to do as he wished. This was not done out of spite: it's what Cas wanted. He wanted for whatever frustration that afflicted Dean to be taken out on him, prostrating himself like a fucking martyr._

_He was perfect. He loved Dean. He was too good for Dean._

_Legs finally giving way, Dean sat down, drawing his knees to his chest and gripping tight like he'd fall if he didn't. The light was so brilliant; he could still see it behind his closed eyelids. Cas was so quiet, the wet gasps and wheezes disappeared like they never happened at all. A tear rolled down his cheek and smudged onto his jeans as he thought to himself_

What can I do?

* * *

When Dean came to, ever so gradually, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, hands on his knees and back straight as a ruler. When the ache in his lower back began to radiate from proper use, Dean hunched over with a grunt. As he looked up he saw his reflection in the inactive TV, the image fish-bowled. Something wasn't right. Well, nothing was wrong with _him –_ he looked as miserable as usual. The room still looked the same, the same as when he came in.

Wasn't he leaving only a moment ago? To go get Sam so they could call Cas and look for some vamps? So why was he... How did he end up here?

Dean whipped upright again when he heard Sam's knock at the door and a cautionary "You decent in there?" – partially from surprise and the other part being he wasn't in the mood to answer unnecessary questions. He cleared his throat and gave his brother clearance. Sam gave him no time to recover and assess the situation, but he was sure he could manage until the next time he could be alone.

Sam took in a quick observation of the room. "Haven't rung Cas yet?"

That's right. He was one his way to Sam's room, got hit on the head with a phantom brick and came to on the bed. Guess Sam got tired of waiting and decided to hurry him along. Just how long was Dean out, exactly?

"Yeah, I was uh, just about to do it."

Sam observed Dean inquisitively, noting how his hand was pressing hard into the mattress. "You feelin' OK? Did I disturb a daydream?"

Eyes following Sam's own, he quickly un-balled his fist. "You could say that." For the life of him, he couldn't remember of what. Dean's attention went back to his hand. _I was holding something, wasn't I? _But what? And for that matter: when? Before or after the dream?

"No, I understand."

Dean wanted to crawl underneath the bed covers for eternity so he'd never have to look at his brother's idiotic grin and stupid hair and stupid everything ever again. "It wasn't that kind of dream, you fuckin' pervert."

"Who said anything about it being that kind of dream?"

"You did."

Red. There was deathly amounts of red, wasn't there?

Sam pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows innocently. "I guess I did. But it's over now, so just call Cas, would you?"

Still wanting to hide away (or hide Sam in a hole in the ground), Dean closed his eyes and tried his hardest to focus on not saying something he'd regret. Not that his prayers were of the sappy kind. His brother took... liberties, twisting words and making innuendo out of them.

"Hey, Cas. Uhm, me and Sam wanna ask you something so get your holy ass back here."

After a gaping silence, Sam snorted. "Of course he's not going to respond to that. Let me try." He cleared his throat as loudly and dramatically as possible and got into a position like he was going to... Oh god damnit.

"_Castiel, oh Castiel. Wherefore art thou Castiel? Deny our fathers and refuse the Winchester name..._"

"I'm going to kill you while you sleep. Giving you a heads-up."

The angel blade. He was holding the angel blade, and Cas' eye was so blue against the dark red. Wait? Eye?

Sam threw up his hands in defeat. "Well, if that doesn't catch him, nothing will. You're still not looking all that great, though."

"It's just one of those days. Something feels off. But I'm fine, so quit worrying."

"Has something to do with Cas, doesn't it? I'm not being a jerk," he quickly added as he saw the stern look cross dean's face, "but you _have_ been acting strangely since he left. And now he's not responding to you."

"I'm not his god damn keeper, Sam," Dean seethed through a nearly clenched jaw. "I thought we went through this already."

Blood. It was everywhere. On him. On Cas. The floor. The walls. Cas didn't look right. Was it his?

"Yeah we have, but..." Sam was truly concerned now. It was normal for Dean to be snippy when concerning Cas, still being defensive about the relationship, accepting it while denying it was as serious as it appeared, but he was right: something _was _off. He couldn't see it nor could he find a convincing explanation, a word to accurately describe the sensation, but he could see it in Dean even if he could not. Sam eased off. "How about this? You call him again and he doesn't answer, that's _fine_. He has the whole day to get back to us. We, on the other hand, will drive many miles looking for a nest while staining your car's interior with the melted puddle of what's sure to become us."

"Yeah, sounds alright," Dean said as the hostility drained out of his voice. He stood up and snatched the car keys off the tiny nightstand. "Not gonna contact him again, though. Doubt he'll answer the second time around."

_You... Scared... _Scared of what? What was wrong? What the hell was he so afraid of?!

"Fine by me." Sam opened the door, letting Dean out first.

"You know, when you act this nice to me I get nervous."

Sam laughed. "Don't get used to it. Cas comes back and I'll serenade the both of you. How does 'Wind Beneath My Wings' sound?"

"It sounds like me running you over with Baby."

Sam shut the door after them.

Cas, behind him, an arm wrapped around his body, chest connected to his back like a magnet. Dean felt his warm breath on his shoulder, hovering like he could not decided what to do. After a moment, he lowered his head onto the pillow and maneuvered his legs to fill in the space where Dean's own bent. He could feel Cas burrow his head further under the covers as he liked to do. A certified chick flick moment: spooning was as atrocious as it got, but he could feel Cas and how comfortably is body relaxed into Dean's own. He didn't have the heart to say get to your respective corners, there's a penalty for this. Soft and firm and... he wanted to say that whatever Cas had just planned on doing, do it. It's OK tonight. I want you to. I want you to show me.

_Where are you, Cas?_


	7. Tombstone Shadow

The urge to call out to Cas tested Dean's frayed nerves all day and into the evening. He vowed to himself that he would not, that this worry was turning into an obsession that was unacceptable and the most ridiculous thing he could imagine himself doing. During their tumultuous relationship over these past couple years many messages went unchecked.

He was busy.

Sibling rivalries. Patching up the chaos and rifts between millions of family members was something he could not do simply, if ever.

He didn't want to talk or answer what he deemed unnecessary questions.

Dean could understand that. Some days he too wanted to hide from Cas, when he dreaded the direction a topic would turn to or respond to a question he was not yet ready to give.

He was hiding something.

Dean grimaced into the glass of amber whiskey he was working his way through, and it wasn't from the burn; no, that pain was a welcomed distraction. Cas would never do something like... like that again. The day when Dean touched his lips to Cas' own, saying what his voice could not, was the day he ceased lying. For two months now, the same look. Just when the angel settles down, strips off his clothing to lay beside Dean who's been struggling to keep his eyes open while they were being yanked shut by gravity until he was sure the warm body came to rest, or sitting so close to Dean at the kitchen table or even in public, allowing a +1 to his personal space. The near bashful look, happily flustered to share his presence with Dean would quickly cloud over, eyes becoming glassy and head bowed.

The guilt, the humility, the shame was so heavy in the air, so god damn heavy he could taste it, a cloud thick in his mouth. Cas would look at him, willing to let him inside the bubble, however little and however momentary. While one hand reached to be pulled inside, the personification of every doubt Cas had about himself was pulling the opposite way, and it won the struggle every time. Dean could see him relive all the times he betrayed him and his brother in his posture, fists turning white in his lap. Words that were said carelessly with no consequence.

He was becoming lost in his emotions, and so fragile. So human. Dean taught him well.

A glance over his shoulder saw a pool table minus any players, which was a signal that Sam hustled enough for the night; a limit on earnings had to be heeded unless they wanted to get jumped on the way back to their car. Not that Dean doubted he and his brother's ability to win any scuffle they may find themselves in, but sometimes an extra hundred wasn't worth the effort.

A one last sip from the glass and he raised his hand for another before heading back to the hotel. The bartender, a petite little thing, obliged with a smile. Dark curls atop her head, perfectly messy in a way that remained a mystery to Dean, silver studs and small hoops lining her ears, a loose fitting gray tank with hand-made horizontal rips on the back and blue jeans that only could have been painted on. Three months ago she would have been in the Impala and back to work by now. The girl placed the glass back on the table before being beckoned by a patron at the other side of the bar. Dean raised his glass to the woman behind her back. _If you only knew._

Tomorrow being a national holiday saw more patrons at the bar than a normal workday would bring. The same people would be drinking beer by the case-full by tomorrow, but that was still another twelve hours away. The man to his left, currently receiving the attention of Studs, ordered a beer and a cocktail (Dean could never identify that kind of drink... most of the women he knew weren't exactly the cocktail-drinking type, either). Two drinks, so... Yeah, right there. Two tables behind him sat a woman, waiting expectantly for her beverage. On the other side two men conversed over the drone of the music and buzzing of others as they gradually began to fill the bar – statistics and plays that could have concerned the Orioles game playing from the small TV perched in the corner of the bar.

More and more customers filed to the bar placing drink orders, others making the two waitresses work for their money tonight. Peering past heads and stationary bodies he noticed Sam at a table, chatting comfortably with... Dean leaned over in his seat further. Well, the girl was blond, anyway. He smirked inwardly. About time the kid tried to get some. Obviously some would not be "gotten" tonight as Third Wheel Dean proved a problem in any plans Sam might have, but getting a number would still be proof of a successful night.

He checked his watch. Not too long after midnight. Dean wasn't in a rush to leave; in fact, the amount of activity -movement and sound and booze- was a diversion he preferred. A day of routine investigation provided him with no rest.

The visions did not relent. At any possible moment, no trigger, no hesitation and no warning, he would envision red. Covering the walls of a room he had never been in, squishing and splashing underfoot when he walked. His hands, these hands, could feel warmth and and softness while touching nothing at all and all he absorbed from this sensation was hostility. The intent was savage no matter what they may have held. Fingers, specifically the knuckles of his right hand, would throb in pain which, after returning throughout the day, would leave him unable to make a fist.

Hiding the physical ailments proved easier to mask from Sam than the mental. Living a life of abuse, growing up with bruises and bump and scratches, made it fairly easy to shrug off whatever would happen to be nagging him now. Kick to the ribs? Take as deep a breath as you could without grimacing and convince the world you didn't. At this point he didn't have to think about it anymore, the game was seeded so deeply in his unconscious. The visions, though... Dean's brain was something he could not control. He couldn't **stop** seeing hell in his dreams. He couldn't **stop **Cas from seeping into his vision broken and bleeding, near death and blinded...

Dean sighed and took another sip.

He wouldn't call Cas again. This worrying bullshit, it was all in his head, right? Just a couple bad dreams. Absolutely no reason to keep Cas on a leash, to return to him on his beck and call. If he wants to be away for awhile, let him. For all of his ineptitude, he was by no means weak. Hell, he was better off alone than Dean would ever be. Cas would return to him just fine. Dean trusted him to.

Keep telling yourself that.

"You're lookin' a bit gloomy tonight," Studs observed as she passed in front of Dean to retrieve a bottle – vodka from the looks of it.

"You would be half correct. If you knew me a little longer, you'd recognize this"–he pointed at himself–"as my happy face. But other than that, yeah... I've had better days."

She passed off the drink with courtesy and returned to Dean, leaning in closer to be heard over the noise. "Nothing a couple more shots and a friendly bartender couldn't help with?" she smiled innocently. No tinge of flirtation was hinted in her voice and she truly meant well but tonight, like most nights, he did not intend to show and tell to a stranger.

"I keep expecting to see Woody Harrelson to walk through the door," Dean muttered into his drink.

"Ahh," Studs' head nodded slowly in understanding. "Don't worry. Nobody knows you name here." The girl's stance straightened, a firm hand on her hip. "Most people want it kept that way. I won't pry anymore, but I hope that whatever's got you feeling down blows over soon."

Dean wanted to respond with an uneasy "thanks" when two women, in their 40's from the looks of it, sat down beside him and redirected her attention. When Studs was free he simply had to ask: "No chance of you telling me your name, huh?"

"Hey, you show me yours, I'll show you mine," the girl said with a wink. Fair enough. He couldn't place the desire to know of her name. Watching her work, a cool relaxed personality busting her ass tonight, dealing with patrons like himself, boozers and partiers on a daily basis, with an appearance so sprightly she looked as if she manifested straight from a Disney movie. A little fairy companion. Yeah... Definitely a Disney version of a fairy.

Bloody microwaves... Tiny iridescent nipples... Dean moaned and the bartender raised an eyebrow. Before she could voice her concern, a tall long-haired man came up behind him.

"Ready to head back to the motel?"

Dean eyed over his shoulder, not looking directly at his brother. "The question is: are you?" he asked slyly.

"I think my business is done here," Sam replied with smug satisfaction as he leaned over to shove his black ink-covered palm in Dean's unsuspecting face. He jolted back a little in surprised but inspected the written digits on his brother's bear paw of a hand.

"Aw, that's adorable. What the hell are you, in middle school?"

"Bite me, jerk," Sam chided playfully as Dean's shoulders shook from laughing. "So, we going or not?"

Dean nodded, pushing back the stool seat with a screech that went unnoticed, hand reaching to his back pocket to retrieve his wallet. After tonight, Sam's surely had more volume to it. Once he felt less distracted and disoriented he'd double down, earning for himself what Sam did plus more. Not necessarily to one-up his brother: Dean had to earn his keep too, no matter how sore or morose he may be.

Well, perhaps there was some competition there, too. He or Sam would earn X amount in cash so that made him the better card shark or pool hustler, which in turn would motivate the other to clean house the next night and boast. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Fishing out several bills plus tip, Dean slipped them under the glass and called to the bartender, who was diligently clearing aside the used glasses of others. "You have a good night, Name Withheld."

"Same to you, Troubled Love Life."

Dean's eyes dilated and mouth swung open in astonishment. Was it... Was it that noticeable? He thought he was pretty damn vague in his sensibility; what was on his mind could be any possible affliction. Next she would say "Mistrusting Your Boyfriend," and if that ever did happen Dean would have to kill her on the spot because she was a witch and, as much as he like Studs, she need to die.

The girl shook her head, as if Dean should have known better. "I deal with guys like you on the daily. Now it's not any of my business to pry, but let me say she's either an idiot not to see what she has, or an idiot to not know what she could have."

"You hardly said two sentences to my emotional husk of a brother and you already know his life story, huh?" Dean shot a glare icy enough to freeze the core of the Earth in Sam's direction, remaining silent otherwise.

"It's not what he says. It's..." She circled a hand in front of her face, drawing attention to the long, dolorous look that mocked Dean's own. "It's the shit you don't say that tells the full truth."

Sam nudged Dean's shoulder with his own. "Don't I know it."

With a click of the tongue, Dean moved aside from his brother, signaled a halfhearted wave to the woman one last time and maneuvered his way through the throngs of people to the exit. When Sam caught up to him he overheard: "She wasn't completely accurate... Least I don't have to kill her."

Sam stopped, his face looking just as puzzled as his mind felt. "Wait, what?"

_Cas, I'm... _He gripped the steering wheel tighter. _I'm not gonna make a big deal over this, so if you hear me it's just to give you a heads-up that I'm heading back to the motel, so you can glide on over there._

"Or forgo the motel entirely and show up in the back seat to ease my mind" was what he wanted to continue with but the words dripped, soggy and bloated, with desperation that not even in the privacy of his own mind did he find any ease with them.

He told himself he wasn't going to bother calling at all, repeating the simple and so easy-to-follow statement over and over. It didn't divert Dean's attention away from the investigation – at least that's what he thinks. Sam could collaborate with him on that fact.

Having no leads to go on other than "somewhere around this part of the state there be vampires," the journey by car was fruitless. A trip to the murder site of Mr. Silvia, the parking lot of one of the many golf courses that dotted the coast, one he happened to work for, was not exactly in the middle of nowhere. Someone was bound to see or even overhear a man being violently maimed by a person or group of people in a brightly lit area. After several hours of eavesdropping gossip and playing tourists to ask questions more directly, the only information they gleaned was that the attack was random. He was a nice guy with no enemies they knew of, had a steady girlfriend for a few months and no new off-color friends, no drug addictions. Dismembering was usually a marking of a personal attack, right? What did he do wrong?

Vampires held no biases. Gender, age, race – when they're hungry, anybody in their way is fair game in the most literal way. They may play with their food if the urge to feed was languorous, but much like normal homicides, the more violent the kill, the more personal they tended to be, where relatives or friends were the perpetrators. Did this man happen to know a vampire or vampires personally?

A stop to a library presented to the boys that not a person in his family, from either side, had a mysterious cause of death, nor had they gone missing. Aside from personally going to his parents' residence or a tracking down his beau, there was little to go on. With the idea of returning to the hotel to retrieve their discarded, slightly dirty and, in Dean's case, extremely wrinkled suits sounding as appealing as dumpster diving, Dean suggested contacting Garth once again to inform them of the possible presence of hunters in the area, or maybe some that recently were. Finding a hunter that would willingly meet with the infamous Winchester brothers would likely make this shot in the dark all the darker, as the boy's reputation for the death and destruction of associates was known throughout the world, and the best way to avoid getting hit by this truck was to avoid it.

A call was made to the eccentric hunter requesting help from hunters who knew the grounds well, having jobs there in the past or better yet, some that have taken down vamps. Two hours and a greasy bag of fast food later, Garth called Sam back with encouraging intel. A hunter out of Georgia by the name of Roselia agreed to meet with them – as long as she would not be involved with the actual hunt, of course. Figuring that decision was for the best, Sam asked for contact info, called the woman and was given the place to meet: a park not too far off of route 278, close to an hour away from the state border. When questioned about what she would be wearing, something to identify her by, she facetiously replied that there was no need: it's pretty easy to spot celebrities.

The boys sought refuge under the shaded protection of a tree, Sam watching on as Dean appeared more saturnine by the second, wanting to comment but thinking better of it, until Roselia snaked herself alongside them with a startle. She smiled weakly and playfully taunted that their skills were dulling with age. Dean observed her briskly and responded that she was the same age as himself, maybe a year or two older, which she was, but Dean knew better than to say that part aloud.

Short hair framed a young face aged by battles and loss; a scar approximately 4 inches in length crossed the top of her hand and wrist a reminder of one of those fights. As he spoke with them, the unmarked hand consciously or unconsciously, neither of the men knew, covered the scar. Although she spoke of quitting the life three years ago, her chewed-down fingernails, gun oil residue covering a few fingers, spoke volumes of her not necessarily being honest. Dean, as he fought to deny it, saw himself in her. His future self, saying he was done for good, his body had all it could take and no more sleepless nights all the while keeping an arsenal of weapons on hand at all times, ever vigilant for the next attack. Try as he might, Dean could never leave.

She was shorter than Dean but not by much, worn leather boots going to her mid-calf. Her voice, while not unpleasant, was one of a person tired, one who had seen too much in too short a time. ("Textbook definition of a hunter" Sam would remark later on the drive back to the motel.) A silver chain hung down low on her chest, a charm attached Dean could not view without appearing rude. Words of her past were not indulged, as was expected, other than her purpose for meeting with the famed Winchesters.

Three years ago she and her partner at the time caught news of two campers found murdered in a forest not far outside of Francis Marion, the only evidence found were puncture wounds – much like the situation Dean and Sam found themselves in. A mile from the murder site sat a pitifully dilapidated shack, worn from years of weather abuse and human mistreatment. To the untrained eye of law enforcement nothing was found. To a hunter, well, bells and whistles sound off and red flags are waved when they get their eyes and ears on this type of information.

The two of them – Carter was his name and she spoke no further of him – traveled to the site as soon as the crime scene was cleaned up, and once the investigators and panhandlers had finally evacuated. Armed to the teeth and clothing dusty with ash, the raid payed off when they did indeed find a nest inhabiting the building. A surprise attack with well-placed rifle blasts through the windows and sharp-edged knives finding little resistance against the flesh of their necks ended the simple execution of parasitic pests.

It didn't make any sense to her that vamps, even after three years, would think it was secure to reuse the lodging of their own slaughtered kind, the smell of the dead must still linger in the falls and floorboards, but there was not much logic to their actions and kills within the past few months. Regardless, it was a nest, was probably still a nest and it was the best lead the brothers had. Whether or not these vampires had any contact or knowledge of the ones wiped out previously was a mystery, but that was irrelevant.

Taking a lengthy and thoughtful drag from a cigarette she retrieved from the small purse at her side, she looked from Dean to Sam, considering them silently before looking back in front of her, eyes focused on nothing in particular. Roselia knew, of course. Friends or acquaintances or whatever the fuck they were would contact her from time to time, especially concerning local matters – to be extra cautious, so to speak. They enlightened her of the brutal attacks occurring over the last month and the rarer threats awakening like bears out of hibernation all the while thinking, I'm willing to bet my life this sordid mess has something to do with the Winchesters, which she did not hesitate or regret bringing to their attention right then.

Yeah... Yeah, that was probably the case.

Why should now be any different? She wiped the sweat from her brow and turned around to walk back to her car, the expected answer still making her weary.

Don't kill us all trying to fix this mess.

_'Cause you can save the world until there's no world left, but you can't save everyone on it. _Dean nearly doubled over laughing over how absurdly maudlin he sounded... although he was not incorrect.

The ride back was not particularly lively, but Dean did bring up Sam's potential date.

"And when exactly are you going to go out with this young lady? Last time I checked which I'd say was right about _now_, we have no free time. You gonna keep her waiting until the day we head back home?"

"If you and Cas can find free time, so can I," said Sam resolutely.

"That's because we sleep in the same bed," which caused Sam to stifle a laugh with the back of his hand, being careful not to smudge the numbers. "What? What's so funny?"

Sam shook his head in an attempt to say it wasn't as bad as it appeared, which in turn made a liar out of him. "Just the, just the look on your face. You looked so stern and... like a principal. Mr. Winchester stating the obvious."

"Just how much did you drink tonight?"

"Nothing you or I can't handle. I'm like... a fraction of a percent drunk. Pleasantly warm," he said with a wave of his hand. "Anyway, I need all the help I can get until you get the stick out of your ass."

Dean would have backhanded him if he wasn't correct.

As Dean made the turn to pull into the parking lot, Sam craned his neck and tapped the passenger side window. "Looks like Lassie came home."

Sure enough stood Cas, waiting outside of Dean's door and as he pulled up closer to park, the more confounded he became. Cas' hair was flat against his skull and his coat weighed down and colored almost gray, like he had got caught in the rain, though he did not drip moisture. With his head darting about alertly an a grimace set in his face he looked uncomfortable and lost, like he did not know how he came to be at this spot. The car's bright headlights made it seem almost surreal. (Revolting artificial white light, it set his skin crawling.)

The relief of seeing Cas returned to him was very quickly replaced by uneasy. Cas looked as baffled as he felt. It was that same look this morning, wasn't it? That brief flash in time between when Cas spaced out and he came back to: disorientation and a shade of resistance. Sometime between when he left Dean this morning and just now his mind left his body, didn't it?

A cold hand crawling up his spine lightly, carefully, penetrated his head and maneuvered its way precisely to the hair trigger controlling his restraint, the one that prevented his worry, his overactive and fearful mind, from becoming aggressively defensive. Peaceful concern melted away leaving an acidic trail behind it.

Dean flipped off the ignition and exited the car, eyes fixated on Cas who still did not note their presence. Beside him, Sam watched his brother's face transform, eyes soft with relief turn to a blaze hot enough to melt stone. This was not -could not- be the result of a lover's quarrel. Something was wrong but he dare not interrupt as it would most likely have the opposite effect of assistance. He shut the car door leaving Dean standing rigid behind, and made brief eye contact with Castiel as he passed to enter his own room.

Shaking his head to clear away the fuzziness, Cas turned finding Dean standing in the fabled personal space zone and at such a close range he could feel it was well as see it, radiating off Dean in waves. He was furious. Not from disappointment or feeling genuine anger toward the angel; rather, Dean felt like an animal, stunned and rabid, blind and disoriented. An emotion being stretched thin in several directions, taut and about ready to give. Cas didn't feel threatened, of course not. But he was troubled.

"I heard you call for me." Cas hoped to soothe and not appear to be patronizing him.

He could feel it again, the slickness of blood of Cas' blood on his hand and the hammering flow of his own echoing in his ears. _Libera te ex infernis_, a canticle ringing both clear and sweet but sliced at his mind like damnation. Now it was all he could see and he fought like a dog to close his eyes.

"This hostility you feel is directed at me, although I am unsure exactly what wrong I have done–"

Dean stepped forward, closing what was already a small gap and laughed through his nose, eying the angel's damp clothing. "I'm thinking the fact that you genuinely have no idea what's going on pisses me off even more." He gave a firm tug to a lapel, drawing Cas' attention toward it. "You fly away to some damn place and I wouldn't be surprised if you didn't know where it was either, ignore me and come back near a day later just as confused as when you left. You couldn't tell me where you were just now, could you?"

A year ago, well, perhaps even less than that, this ridiculous debasement would have not been tolerated; Castiel would have simply left Dean when he got into one of his moods or stand firm, threatening a man who proclaimed himself unafraid. Due to that delusion, picking a verbal argument with Dean was akin to punching a shadow. This was... He was irrational. Cas was not sure what happened to Dean in the short amount of time he was absent, but he was clearly distraught. Threats would not work against someone unable to hear them, so the best course of action was to remain quiet and still, for hopefully listening to Dean continue would clue him onto what was afflicting the human.

And why did he continue to glance at his coat?

"You really don't..." Dean sighed. Not losing patience, but frustrated nonetheless. "You really don't know, do you?"

"I wish I had something to tell you, Dean, but I do–"

"Don't, Cas," Dean's voice rose. "Just don't. I can't..." He was done; he had enough of Cas for one night. Brushing past Cas he entered his room with a slam of the door.

He leaned against the door, holding his breath, the sound of blood in his ears the only audible noise. It, whatever _it _was -fervor, agitation, what-fucking-ever- drained away, down through his body and into the floor.

A deep breath in. He still felt empty.

His right hand once again began to ache.

* * *

Dean peeled one eyelid open, seeing only the flat expanse of the bed before him. The light by the exit to the main road thankfully did not brighten the room too much, but enough to see that while his bed was empty, the room was not. One unmoving shadow draped across the back wall.

Turning his body to face the other side of the room, Dean viewed Cas staring out of the window. Looking at... what? Nothing was the most likely the correct answer, reflecting on what transpired a few hours ago. His suit remained on; the coat covered a nearby table. Was Cas beginning to understand now?

He watched Cas for what felt like hours, both of them as still as the air. Before Dean could find the words, any words, to say, Cas broke the silence.

"Something's wrong, isn't there? I assumed there was before, so I..." He glanced down and then to Dean. "There's more to this. More than what I originally thought. What happened this morning and during the day..."

Cas looked like a lone man upon a stage delivering a monologue, the eyes of hundreds fixated on him. So small and forlorn.

"I lost time twice. It took much consideration to come to the realization that, that the last time I remember being conscious was what must have been the morning. I heard your voice and returned here and now, at this moment..." Cas faced his reflection in the glass, a weak smile at the corner of his mouth. "It's nighttime. Nearly 15 hours cannot be accounted for. As hard as I try to, I recall nothing. Not a sight or sound. I suppose my coat could be viewed as a lead, but it only speaks of me being caught in the rain; hardly a viable clue."

Cas wanted nothing more than to strip himself of the rest of his clothing and lay beside Dean, speaking no more of their troubles and the sleep the unease away, waking up to a new day where he remained at Dean's side and did not fly off to a location he would forget, doing things he could not even imagine. Where Dean would josh him for deadpan comebacks or his ignorance, yet inch closer like he never wanted Cas to stop. Things like that happened, didn't they? That wasn't something he imagine?

Yes. He knew that for a fact. Certain feelings and sensations could not be faked. A hand brushing his; the warmth of Dean's body; a wet tongue tracing his own. Most importantly, the strongest of all, was Dean himself. The soul of a terrified beast finding tranquility in his grace was more powerful than any physical contact. It was his gift of peace for the man who suffered at his own hands.

But now there was no solace to be found in his embrace. Cas could feel Dean _repel _against him. The peace Dean had found in his presence was... gone. Snarling and destructive, his soul was in a fury.

"It's not only me. We're both troubled."

Unsure of going further, Cas continued looking outside

Both remained still and quiet for what seemed to Dean an eternity until Cas breathed out. "It means 'save yourself from hell.'" Dean shifted when he heard the words but made no attempt to reply. "I don't pry into your dreams so please do not be upset with me. You've been... dreaming very loudly and I can't help but overhear. I just thought you would like to know."

Dean was tired, so fucking tired. Drained of all emotion and he swore he couldn't feel anything at all. But Cas heard him, sensing his dreams at night, and something woke up inside him, deep in his chest. He wanted to say something so badly, visions in his head had him crying to Cas of everything, _everything _he ever wanted to say to him or Sam or his father or anyone. To share the burden.

For now, that joy evaded him. In this reality he was afraid he would say something that could never be taken back.


	8. Three Directions

Bright. Too bright. Wasn't it night only a couple minutes ago?

Head still buried in the pillow, a hand blindly groped the space beside him, finding nothing.

Birds sang merrily outside, enjoying the genial morning weather.

He surveyed the room, head still hazy from sleep.

Alone.

On the table by the window lay Cas' coat, unmoved from hours before.

* * *

Dead leaves from seasons past crunched pitifully underfoot as the two brothers trekked the rapidly darkening forest to their destination, the Impala unavoidably being ditched some 40 minutes behind them. At times like these Dean wished he could fit an ATV inside the trunk.

"Nothing says a stealthy ambush like the rev of an engine over a mile away," Sam observed as they scavenged the trunk for weapons.

"That's why it's a dream," Dean said passively as his fingers traced the hilt of a bowie knife. In his mind's eye he could see... He was quick to retrieve a machete as he felt Sam's eyes linger on his stalled movements. Now wasn't the time to talk about his feelings. In the corner of his vision, Sam shrugged.

"You think you'd be used to long walks through the woods." Grabbing what he needed, he took a step back allowing Dean to find whatever else he deemed necessary.

A 9mm resting under a shotgun closest to him was that he sought, shoving it into the waistband of his jeans with one hand, the steel and grip cool against his back. Done. "Purgatory was _all _woods; not much of a choice there. You either stay moving or die. This is just annoying." Slamming the trunk closed, Dean began walking forward, not waiting up for Sam. "Imagine my surprise when I found out my brother didn't try to cut that trip any shorter."

The words sliced at Sam as Dean spoke an ugly truth. Dean never used that fact as a weapon, preferring to store it away under lock and key in the deepest and darkest corner of his mind as that was his coping mechanism. But pain never hides itself away for long. He told Dean in that cabin, shirt damp with holy water and a fresh cut to his skin, and it was honest to God real. His only family had left him in the span of a few months: Bobby was dead, and with not a hint or idea to go by, Cas and Dean were just as good as gone. It did nothing to quell the disappointment building in his older brother as to him this was abandonment. Conceding without a fight. Sam knew Dean if put into that same predicament would have turned the entire world inside-out to find him, killing anything that posed a threat to his goal.

Sam was so tired. Death and hallucinations brought him to collapse and knowing he might have to do the very same things Dean would do to get him back, an endeavor that was not even guaranteed to work, was more than he could bear. He was lost, without direction for the first time in his life, but he knew what he wanted. Rest. He didn't expect Dean to understand this and supposed he never would. To look him directly in the eyes and lie "I looked for you for months" was something he could never do.

As Sam trailed Dean beginning their expedition into the woods, leaving the Impala in a spot they hoped was well covered and would not draw any attention, his memory pulled him back to a morning in the spring. In fact, it was the day after he outed Dean and Cas as being more then friendly. After brushing and dressing for the day he saw that his laptop bag was not next to the bed where he left it. In fact, the laptop wasn't in the room at all. With only one place else it could possibly be, Sam knocked on Dean's door. Assuming Dean was sleeping he knocked once again more firmly.

"Quit knocking!" Dean's muffled shout signified he was awake and entered the door he knew the computer kidnapper left unlocked.

Neither Dean nor Cas bothered to look at him as their eyes were transfixed on the screen; the soft mumble from the speakers told it was a video. What type of video it was he didn't want to know. With the intensity in his eyes similar to the attention he gave to interrogations or playing a United States secret agent, the video could not have been porn at the very least.

They both sat on the bed, Dean with his legs out before him under the blankets and the laptop balanced on the top of his thighs, and Cas sitting cross-legged and head bent close to Dean's for a better view of the screen, nearly naked if not for a pair of boxers. A silent yet ebullient prayer went out to anything willing to listen to Sam for the small favor.

"Dean, you could have–"

"Shh!"

"But–"

Dean snapped his head to finally acknowledge Sam's presence in the room and hissed "Shh!" once again before returning to the screen once again.

It's pretty comical knowing that on Sam's birth certificate, it proves him younger than Dean.

So he waited. Arms crossed over his chest, Sam stayed standing by the door until whatever they were viewing stopped. It didn't.

Cas spoke up, his voice a juxtaposition between softness that complimented the morning while maintaining its usual growl. "So all of this is for..." He watched Dean's hand grab his own, raise it, and press it against his mouth, silencing Cas from disrupting any further. An affronted grunt turned into acceptance as Dean let go.

They're children. The both of them. Children.

Sam clapped, hoping to snap them to attention. "Well, since that mystery is solved, you two should get dressed." After not receiving even a blink in reply, he changed his tone. "Don't make me put you in time out."

"The movie's over in 20 minutes, Sam. You can wait it out for us."

"If I told you to wait because I was watching a movie, you'd take my laptop from me and hide it somewhere, like the bottom of a lake."

"This is different. Cas, he's..." Sam couldn't see Dean's face as he turned aside to Cas (existing in a world only occupied by him and the computer), but he could imagine it. They were sharing something, as silly as it was. A blip in time that belonged to Cas and himself and he relished in it. His nerdy angel paid him no mind and given the circumstances, he wanted it that way.

As quickly as it happened, Dean continued, fixing his face as it was before. "He's hasn't seen this movie before and it's almost over. It also means that," he laid a sympathetic hand on Cas' shoulder, "he's never seen the Nazi's faces melt."

Cas frowned. "Their faces melt?"

"Like bloody soft serve."

After taking time to come to terms with this development, Cas nodded.

Sam never did get them out of bed before the movie ended. An attempt to snatch the laptop away was met with Cas' hand slapping his own, not lightly either. A flush blotted Dean's cheeks as he peered aside again and tucked his chin to his chest, although the meaning behind it could never be camouflaged.

While Dean didn't comprehend Sam's refusal to search, he now began to feel the desire to just _stop_, to look to the knife in his hand and throw it aside, everything in the car gone, grab Cas by the wrist and drive to to the most secluded location on the continent. To rest, just for a little while. To do the things he would like to do before the chance evaporated.

The expedition into the woods was a silent one, with brief interruptions snapping twigs, the rustle of leaves shaking on branches jostled by squirrels, and grunts as both men swatted away mosquitoes and bugs they were sure had not been discovered and classified yet.

Roselia stated that, from where they parked, as long as they remained on a straight northwest path they should have no problem reaching their destination, and they would know they were close by when the gaps between trees became more pronounced until it came almost to a clearing. With a cellphone running a compass application in his free hand, Sam had the honor of keeping directions, a job humbly offered to him. Dean practically insisted.

Dean would chime in occasionally to make sure his brother wasn't slacking off, because "being able to safely travel through the woods is like, what, the first thing they teach Boy Scouts?" And so Dean would call back to Sam and he'd answer back "Yes, scout master," knowing Dean was savoring the sensation of being a pain in the ass.

About 30 minutes in, the orange glow of light of the sun far beneath the line of trees and growing darker by the minute, Dean stopped, Sam nearly bumping into him; being the good scout he is, his head was down, looking at the phone.

"Anything wrong?"

Dean patted at his jacket's pockets. "Tell me you remembered a flashlight." The way back to the car would be problematic, especially if one of them were to end up being hurt...

With a hand reaching to an inside pocket in his own jacket, Sam pulled out a rather cheap-looking flashlight, plastic and a yellow so intense it probably didn't even need batteries to glow. When Dean raised an eyebrow, Sam defended his choice. "It's all we had left in the car. As long as it works, right?" He raised the button with his thumb and shined the light into Dean's eyes as proof.

"You really are a Boy Scout, aren't you?" Dean raised his hand to shield his eyes, more annoyed than angry.

Sam flipped the switch to off. "Someone has to pick up the slack since you've been forgetful lately. I was afraid you wouldn't be..." he shrugged. "Properly prepared."

"Me?" Dean glanced over his shoulders to be sure Sam was speaking to him. "I'm unprepared? I have a machete I stole from Jason Voorhees, a gun, a flask of holy tap water in my pocket and what do you bring?" When Sam did not take the cue to answer, Dean waved the blade in his direction, a little too close and a little too low for Sam's liking.

He rolled his eyes. "A flashlight."

"He brings a damn flashlight! What do you plan on doing with that, huh? Burn their retinas? Hide under the covers with 'em and read a bedtime story until they pass out? Then big brother comes in and does the dirty work."

Sam could tell by Dean's tone that right now, however brief it may be, he was feeling agreeable. His face was relaxed, especially around the eyes where they would normally become enlarged, skin going taut from emotion he was unable to suppress. It should be just the opposite, though, shouldn't it? With unchanging scenery and repetitive action Dean's thoughts should be swimming around his head, no distractions to tether them down. Thinking about Cas and his disappearances and whatever else had him so wound up. It had to be more than something like the past catching up with him. At least that's what Sam assumed. Dean does a fair job of repressing feelings and memories. Was caring for Cas a burden? Another burden added to a mind already under monumental duress? A crack was formed and water began to drip away. Over time the crack would become larger and larger...

Now was not the time to ask. Dean was fine and they should be arriving to their destination soon.

But when would be the time?

Dean kicked aside a small rock and watched it bounce against the jagged trunk of a fallen oak tree. "What kind of crazy Davy Crockett son of a bitch builds a house in the middle of a forest, anyway?"

"You would," Sam said, genially surprised Dean would even ask a question in which the answer was clearly obvious.

"Guess you have a point." He smirked amiably to nothing in particular. Little did Sam know just how hard that answer hit. Dean could see it, just as detailed and sharp as a memory, warm like a blanket protecting against the piercing chill of blood and gore and Cas... But Cas was more likely to die by his hands than have this pipe dream fulfilled.

Their eyes were adjusted to the darkness by now, but the aid of light would be needed momentarily. As Roselia said, the forest came to a clearing and 30 yards away stood the outline of a cabin. Dean sighed with relief, wanting to shout in gratitude but knowing better. Sam gestured to the flashlight and Dean shook his head: not yet. From this distance it was difficult to see if anyone or anything moved within the small building or even around it. They were not avoiding the chance of confrontation for it was inevitable, but having the opportunity of a surprise attack put the odds of them getting their questions answered in their favor. Dead vampires told no tales.

* * *

It was an unspoken language, pulsing waves of energy understood by anything able to interpret them. Could it even be considered a language? Perhaps. Ants communicate in a similar fashion, leaving chemical trails to lead their brethren or warn of danger, and it could not be understood by other animals; it was ignored completely. It was not vocalized, yet it made its intentions tangible. The point was clear.

They did not need to use their borrowed voices, but they did so because they _could_. For the first time since time began their intentions had sound. The pitch, the vibration, the vocabulary so expansive and liberating. Conversation had depth.

It was not only the joy of speech. They now had skin and nerves that could feel and eyes, beautiful eyes, that could see only what was in front of them. Nothing more. So narrow. So simple. Why did she want to give this up so soon?

On this day they reverted back, closing their mouths and communicating directly out of necessity. Of course he did not want to, containing the desire to shout out to all who could hear. But he made a promise and that much he could do. For himself, for her, for all of them.

_Just because they cannot hear you does not mean they cannot feel you._

He chose to ignore her and instead looked on, the darkness not affecting their ability to see. The waves she produced in response were slow and deep like the vibrations of a bass string, shaking him in hopes of acquiring his attention.

_It has been this way for many weeks. We hide in the shadows like thieves to observe scenes that have played out countless times, and to what end?_

She was getting nowhere with him. The vessel he chose accommodated him nicely as it is precisely how he acted: a spoiled human child. Ignoring the voice of reason, ignorant to the world distorting around him. Absolutely blind to it. There he sat on the forest floor among the dirt and insects and watched with rapt attention at these Winchesters as they stalked prey, like watching a show on television.

This was not entertainment. The show before them was a product of insolence and had gone on long enough.

The woman fell to her knees in haste in front her compeer and squeezed both of his shoulders. _You have trivialized your promise to me. While you do not raise a hand that holds the blade, your -our- very being here is tearing this universe apart. It cannot be blamed on coincidence any longer. The risk to ourselves becomes too great to ignore any longer. _She took a deep breath and loosened her grip. _We did not know we would influence the beings here this profoundly... Can we not be so confident to say that they could not do the same to us?_

_Control your features, _he said in clipped vibrations, as if he were laughing. _I am not the only one becoming accustomed to their expressions. _She quested him out to him, questioning. _Your jaw is sealed shut; if you do not release it you may crack your body's teeth. And your eyes... _The teenager pushed himself off the ground and dusted off the seat of his shorts. _They are close to rolling out of their sockets you have enlarged them so._

With a timid hand she felt for the hinge of her jaw and it was in fact bulging outward. After loosening it came the dull ache from tensed muscles. Her body searched to draw an emotion she could not feel, an appropriate reaction to this... to this osmosis.

Sitting on her heels she remained, not bothering to look up at him. _Do you see? It begins already. We cannot allow this to progress not only for the effect it will have on them, but how it will change us. It will undoubtedly weaken us, and whatever happens after that..._

Unknown. That was their word for it. To not know. For them, their kind, such a term was unnecessary. But yet now it crossed them as a tangible possibility and in fact has already come to pass. Interfering in a world resistant to them was causing unforeseen consequences.

Of course it would. The two of them should not be here. Exist here. Foreign invaders; a virus thriving in a body. Contaminating.

Ahead, a beam of light jostled back and forth from within the cabin, the only element to be seen through the broken windows. Muffled voices were scarcely audible and the bodies passing merely shadows, though it did not matter. Their unique signatures, ones all humans possessed, could be acquired anywhere. The taller of the brothers remained at the side of two unconscious vampires while the bonded one hovered around the exit, imploring to eliminate them.

_You cannot see it anymore._

_It...? _She felt him hold out a hand to her, to lift the elder's body upright from the squatted position.

_Here. Look outward into this universe and you see nothing, do you not? Everything but here. Finally we are able to be here among them and yet they are but a tree without branches._

_Yes, and it is more reason for us to turn back. _She was becoming erratic, impressions coming out in infrequent bursts. It was true. Many attempts were made since their arrival to apprehend the fates of anyone they quested out to, including the Winchesters and Castiel, and the result was the same for each case. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. The looking glass became translucent.

_Don't you want to know why? _Was that... excitement she picked up in the pulse? As close to it as one could possess. His body's heartbeat and thought pattern spiked incessantly. It was all entirely human: the anticipation and eagerness one feels upon discovery, shortly before testing a hypothesis.

Questions. He was asking questions when there was no need to. It is not what they do. Watching, that was all. They only watch and no troubles had befallen them. But why? Why is that...

_You, too. _He looked up to her and blinked. _We both have the same question._

_No, that's wrong. _Panic began to distort the waves and due to that lost control of her legs, stumbling back from the child. _I do not need an answer. I do not want to turn out as the angels have._

A solid form blocked her from moving back any further, the bump knocking out the little support she had left in her unstable legs and would have fallen if the figure had not hooked its arm under hers and pressed a lengthy blade to her throat. A rush of identification rushed over her in the sudden appearance like the delay of thunder after a lightning strike.

The low voice threatened. "What are you?"

In the darkness, the boy's eyes lit up in delight. "Castiel!"

* * *

"If they haven't heard or smelled us by now, I think it's safe to assume there's nobody in there. Want to take a look around, anyway?"

Sam didn't need to see Dean to know he nodded, his brother's silent cues became reflex many years ago. A lowering of their guard did not mean they loosened their grip on the machetes; there may have been no vamps lurking behind the trees, but there a whole book's worth of monsters that could be.

The flashlight came to life in front of them, spotlighting the cabin that had seen better days. The lumber was darkened and rotting. Shattered glass on the side of the house they could see and a hole that took up a quarter of the roof; a hefty branch from the tree closest to it was the likely cause told them the structure was just as decrepit on the inside as was outside. Police tape still littered about after 3 years, leading under the door and partially buried under leaves and grass further away, dulled from weather.

Treading lightly toward the door which stood ajar, Dean pushed his way inside after it offered some resistance; the scraping against the floor meant it was probably a table that was pushed aside somewhat. He doubted the wind could do that.

"Guess we're not alone," Dean said to himself before entering, Sam following closely behind.

A mixture of soil, leaves, and dust covered the floor along with the broken shards of kitchenware and amber and green beer bottles. Leaning against the walls were wooden boards, most likely used to cover the windows from the inside. Whoever took the time to undo the work must have frequented the spot. A mattress frame was all that remained of a bed; the size reminded Sam of his own at the bunker. The table Dean pushed aside was a fairly sturdy one, rectangular and bare. A single picture hung on a wall closest to them, where the living room once was, painted with scenery that could have been inspired from this location. Either the previous owner liked it simple or the others had been stolen, considering the substantial amount of barren wall space.

"Son of a bitch," Dean said gravely, drawing Sam's attention away from observation.

Shining the light to his left, Sam followed Dean's voice and nearly jumped when he saw his brother standing between the prone bodies of...

As he straightened himself out, thankful his brother wasn't looking in his direction, several questions came to mind in rapid-fire succession. Not being able to choose one, he settled for, "What the hell?"

On one side of Dean sat a man, eyes foggy and staring straight forward, like he were looking through Sam's stomach and it made his skin itch to think that was probably the case. A healthy hue colored his face so he couldn't have been dead, but he didn't look alive, either. Couldn't have been a day over 20. No blood covered the man nor was their signs of any struggle.

More unsettling was Dean going face-to-face all too casually with the other figure staring out the window, back facing Sam. He must have been frozen still like his friend.

"Well, you seem to be pretty comfortable with whatever the hell's going on here," Sam waved his hand out to the peculiar scene in front of him, "so you mind telling me what you know?"

Dean shoved the upright man on his arm and only the upper body responded to the motion, the lower half set firmly in place. One more push and Sam imagined the torso sliding off to shatter like glass against the floor.

"Cas pulled the same crap with me yesterday morning." Sam tilted his head to the side quizzically when Dean left it at that, imploring him to elaborate such ambiguity. Well, it seemed pretty clear to him. He sighed and hastily answered. "Mid-conversation he turn into a space cadet. Didn't take long, but he forgot the entire thing. Said _I _was the one imagining things, actually."

"And you didn't think anything of that?" Sam asked incredulously.

"I did," Dean snapped back, "but..." He growled low in his throat, positively frustrated with... with whom, exactly? Sam had asked him a simple question, one that should have been first when Cas took a mini mind vacation the other morning. What had he done? He had pushed it aside, hoping it would not happen again. Did Dean care for the cause? No. As long as it didn't happen again. Fuck, it's the first rule of being in this line of work: Weird shit doesn't just happen. If you can't explain it and also have a telephone book's worth of enemies, the bad luck and unexplained phenomena you're experiencing are intentional.

It was affecting him and Cas both, one not resulting from the other but separate scourges interacting; Cas was not causing his temper from acting oddly, but something else entirely. Last night he could see in Cas' eyes the shame he felt, believing that he was the cause for Dean's change in temperament, and was something in which he had no control over. Now it was not only them. Now was the time to be more invested.

Stupid angel. Even now you won't share your burden.

Dean turned his back to Sam, who was growing more worried for his brother's welfare, and pulled back the upper lip of the man next to him with his free hand. His face was cast in shadow caused by the flashlight, but that didn't matter at all. Could have had a missing nose and tulips growing out of his eyes for all Dean cared.

"Well, at least we didn't hike all the way up here for nothing."

"Yeah?" Sam inched forward, not due to the questionable state of these two catatonic gentlemen, but to test his brother's boundaries. How close was close enough? Not deigning to press his luck, he stopped a few feet short and shone the light up.

"I think–I know what happened," Dean said emphatically, lowering his hand to cover the multitude of white, razor thin fangs. "This guy here smelled us coming up."

"He's looking out the window in the direction we came from," Sam interjected.

Dean nodded inimically, not appreciating the interruption. "He senses a threat, puts on his mean face, but before he can even turn around they're in their happy place. And this fine fellow here"–Dean patted the head of the other vampire–"was enjoying a little Miller time, by the looks of things."

Looking at the beer bottles surrounding Dean's feet, an odd question struck Sam. "The place is in the middle of nothing and the heat's enough to melt sneakers. How is the booze even palatable by the time they get here?"

It sounded like something Dean would say, so much so he had to repeat the words in his head to confirm the voice was not actually his own. Yeah... Yeah, that was Sammy. Sacrificed his life to prevent the Apocalypse and now deeply concerned about the correct serving temperature of beer for monsters. A humanitarian if their ever was one.

Seeing that Sam was about to backpedal and recant the ludicrous observation, Dean smiled. "That's a pretty good question. I guess if they ran here fast enough it would still be kinda cold, but with no electricity to power that sad excuse of a fridge back there, they wouldn't stay that way and that's a damn travesty." He sighed melodramatically. "Drinking warm beer... They truly are godless killing machines."

Quick as a viper strike Dean seized the light brown hair of the young vampire and raised the machete with the other. Sam's heart leaped into his throat as he shouted to his brother, whose face once again became lax and emotionless.

"The hell are you doing!"

Dean looked up to the knife and back to Sam. "What we normally do to vampires..."

"I know that, but didn't..." Dean had no intention of lowering his arm, so Sam did it for him with a distressed grunt. A scowl was his reward and it was ignored. "Weren't you the one who wanted to interrogate any monsters we came across?"

"They aren't going to snap out of it," Dean said blankly.

"Of course they are!" Sam tried to reason with his audacious brother. "Cas did, right? He–"

"He hasn't been right since." There was a fire in Dean's voice as well as his eyes. His tone lowered huskily, the first hint as to whatever was troubling him, and it seemed to be a treacherous place to begin. "If I can't get a straight answer out of him, what makes you think now will be any different?"

Sam needed to change Dean's perspective on this, to see it how he did and be reasonable without offending. This erratic behavior made no sense and now, seeing Dean's green eyes become glassy from pain and confusion, he feared for his welfare. "Cas was only a one shot. We need to observe more incidents like this before we can assume anything."

"Are you really that blind, Sammy?" Dean asked with disappointment heavy in his drawl.

"No... Of course not." Dean brought the topic safely to the table allowing his to speak openly, but still winced when he continued. "But it's been going on for a lot longer than a day. You haven't been right in about a week." Dean looked aside, flinching himself. "You were so happy, too."

He was, wasn't he? But god, it felt like years ago. Visions of the past several months assaulted his head. A soggy day when he and Cas first kissed; a creep of heat across Cas' face when he sat intentionally close to him; Sam being egged on from their backseat passenger as he taunted Dean and later reveling in their absolute agony as he sang the lyrics of every tape he put into the player. Sam smiled a lot, didn't he? Just as much as Dean did. His brother was happy because he was.

His hands on Cas' back as he manipulated the sensitivity there. The cause of that was still unknown though neither of them minded. Straddling his angel, grasping Dean's hair as they kissed, now less timid and bashful. How did he do it so damn well when he learned from porn? All tongue, no urgency and no need. But Cas, he... It was desire from a being that was still a novice to the feeling. Love from an angel was one most pure, he guessed. Raw and hungry and soft and possessive. He belonged to Cas just as Cas belonged to him.

Life was imperfect and it was fine by him. Sam was alive, supportive as always; Cas was alive, beautifully devoted.

But still, he couldn't...

"That's why we have to let them live," Sam's voice hummed back to Dean's wandering mind. "Hear them out, see if they know anything."

"They have just as much idea of what's going on as we do." He maneuvered past Sam, minding the trash and askew furniture, to head to the door. "Whatever's manipulating us and the vamps and all the other god damn monsters on the planet isn't going to be answered by these two fuckwits and if you won't let me kill them, you can pull up a chair and babysit 'em until they attack you. I'm done here." Dean breathed out, losing the will to put up a fight and exhausted from not being in control, and stepped out of the cabin.

Sam and him were an hour away from civilization on his request: some crazy crap is going down and our only lead may know something about it. Now that he was here, seeing them no different than Cas... Dean just wanted them dead. Truly dead. Decapitation was not enough, no. He wanted their stationary hearts sliced in half. They wouldn't answer Dean's inquiries because they had no answers to give. Absolutely useless, a waste, so just end them like any other.

Defending his life from consistent threats in Purgatory made him come to realize that while killing there was a necessity, it became enjoyable. Cathartic and cleansing and though not at peace, the moment after a kill was as close as he was going to get to reaching that state. A hunter and a vampire partnering up to kill whatever creatures that wanted to do the same to them.

If Dean gave into temptation and killed the two stunted vampires behind him, there would be no relief. The outward rush of tension from his body would not come. He'd kill and be unsated. The situation was not as simple as hunt or be hunted this time; rather it was a thirst for blood that could not be quenched from a mysterious cause, but with familiar attributes. Was it all more simple than it appeared, complicated by outside interference?

He left Sam because he feared for him to see how shaken he was.

"Dean, you gotta talk to me." Sam chased after his brother, not too worried about turning his back to a threat. Standing in the doorway he shined a light toward the side of the cabin, the direction back to the car, where Dean was heading. In the dark.

Sam raised his voice to yell after him. "There's something bothering you and I deserve to know what it is!" All he wanted to do was help. Why wouldn't Dean let him, just this once? He always took on the burden of tending to his little brother and he would have spent another 100 years in Hell to have Dean trust him enough to support him.

Dean stopped. Don't turn around. Can't let him see you like this. Gotta maintain a crumb of control. No response came to mind, not a word. Why stop then? Why not ignore him and keep going? Just walk away into the darkness. In that he could find comfort.

"You're right. You deserve answers and I wish I could give you one. Trust me when I say I'm just as baffled as you are. Something's..." He made a fist with his free hand, recalling the ache of yesterday. "Something's not right." _But why do I feel like it's all in my head?_

At first neither of them thought much of the sound coming from the distance in front of Dean – maybe it was an animal crawling along the branches above or the miniscule breeze rustling leaves. When the noise became a shout, exclaiming "Castiel" no less, a spotlight was shone directly where it came from.

It was over all too quickly. The cheap bulb could not cover the distance and it was a wonder the brothers could make out anything at all. Three people, one behind another. That one was holding a blade; yes, that had to be Cas. The smaller of the three -short hair, had to be a boy- had his back turned to Sam and Dean. Before they could get a look at whomever Cas was holding hostage, he or she reached out to grab the boy, like lightning striking the earth, and dissipated.

Sam jogged beside Dean, to get the light fixed on Cas better and to shout about what happened. He heard Sam say Cas' name, so it wasn't imagined. OK. OK. Cas was here. The two people with him might not have been, but Cas was. That's good. He's back. Under odd circumstances, but he's back.

"Cas, who... What's just happened?" Sam asked confoundedly, the only one of the two in a frame of mind to communicate.

The angel's face contorted into an array of distressed emotions. The confusion and wonder as the two disappeared was what did not hurt Dean the most. Cas looked so lost again, as Dean himself felt. They were both aware of their change of self and how helpless they were to fend it off, a storm surge pulling them out to sea. Sam had asked him to explain and Dean could see Cas sifting through words in his mind, trying to pick out the correct ones in spite of the jumbled mess.

It almost struck Dean as funny, despite seeing Cas with little to no clothing on a regular basis, moments like now, being fully clothed but without the trenchcoat, he seemed so small. Which was preposterous, really; he and Cas had the same body type and were nearly the same height. Maybe that wasn't it at all. The stoicism and confidence he normally displayed, headstrong to a fault, was removed, deflating him.

"C'mon Cas, talk to me. Even if you got the slightest hint as to whatever the hell is going on, it's more than anything we have," Dean pleaded, the bloodlust subsiding and now concerned with only Castiel. "What were they? Demons?"

Eyes that almost shone clear in such direct light shot back and forth between them plaintively. "I don't... I don't know," Cas breathed out meekly. "That's why I have to..."

_Go, _Dean completed the thought. The bastard's going to fly off again.

Straightening his posture, Cas closed his eyes and gazed to the ground, focusing on, on what?

"You son of a bitch, you're not doing this again!" Dean sprinted from Sam's side to confront the flighty angel. If he had to pin Cas to a tree with the machete to keep him here, he would. Cas _knew _ something. He was withholding information and at this point weren't they past that? Had nothing changed at all? Dean's heart dropped as his anger rose.

"Look at me. Castiel, look at me!" Dean's use of Cas' full name caught his attention more than the shove to the chest. That's how a parent or spouse would display their true concern, he learned. The friendly pet name or nickname replaced by the real one. It was very sincere. No joking around and no more games. While he perceived Dean's fury to be very real, the truth, at the core of it all, was fear. His human was sick, too, and the anxiety was manifesting itself as something volatile. Dean used anger or impassiveness as a cover for what he truly felt, but it was being amplified. It had to be them. This was not the work of demons.

The stone gaze of Dean drew his eyes upward. His voice softened, remaining firm. "You have to tell me what's going on. I don't..." He sighed. "I don't like you leaving me in the dark. No more secrets between any of us, remember? No hidden agendas, no nothing. So tell me something. Anything."

Even though Cas had nothing to give Dean, he had to say something. The silence was absolute and Dean, Dean, I'm so sorry.

"They should not exist." He resisted the pull to launch himself at Dean and hold him, so tight he would not be able to breathe. Dean would hug back anyway. Cas wanted him to. If he clung to Dean and he held back, maybe it would have been enough to keep him here. It was not a safe option. "I cannot remain with you two. I'm sorry." His valediction was cut off as he disappeared, not being able to bear Dean's face as he did.

Sam should say something, do something, but agonized over what he _could _ do. His brother hadn't moved, made no attempt to move from his spot across from where Cas had just stood. A plea to stay was not enough. Cas left him. Left him again without excuse.

"Dean, um..." Dean turned around and brushed past his brother sluggishly, a real life zombie, entering the inky black cabin and shutting the door.


	9. The Paradox of Omnipotence

Saltwater waves lapped against the clean sands of a beach, the sound masked by an array of multicolored fireworks exploding above that were being set of somewhere in the Atlantic. The further north one went along the beach the more dense the occupation of families and couple, elderly and young alike, became. Those who valued the privacy more so than the view seated themselves back here, with only the brief flash of red or gold or blue and the light of the moon to illuminate their surroundings. It wasn't so much about the show as it was enjoying a comfortably mild evening in one of the best places you could spend it.

Behind the cover of an uninhabited lifeguard station, two people manifested and nearly lost their footing as they both sunk into the sand; the instantaneous transfer from solid to granular would make anyone lose their balance. The woman leaned a hand against the structure, cheeks tinged the faintest of pink and and breath hissing out of her nose in short puffs. Any excitement or awe the child had just experienced as the angel, a creature he had known since it was created, acknowledged him, melted from his features when he came to realize that they were no longer in the forest.

But still. It happened! It finally happened! For the first time in their history, something watched _them_. A person, a being, discovered something which should not exist. And it raised so many questions, too! Did Castiel really have a plan for what he was going to do – go through with killing them? Did he have any ideas as to what they might be? How did he track them? They came into contact and the universe did not end, so could it be all that dreadful?

"_Yet_." She regained her composure, not needing the aid of the station anymore, but could not find the determination to open her eyes and view her colleague. Hearing him think, feeling him, was already more than she could bear. "The universe has not ended _yet_. You are thinking much too loudly. This body cannot handle much more so please silence yourself," she sighed and rubbed her forehead.

"That's a little dramatic, is it not?" Peering up into her lidded eyes, the persistence of it was enough to have her unwittingly open them. A shock of green illuminated the dark and an earth-shaking rumble caused the briefest moment of panic between the two. How they showed panic, anyway: impassivity while their necks twisted from side to side like an owl's to assess that the sensation was nothing more than that. No threat. A chemical reaction above them. Like the sonic boom of lightning. It was not directed at them.

A quick glance over her shoulder. "I am very well within my right to be dramatic–"

His hands reached out to grab her left one. Questioning his motivation, she allowed him to and he held on loosely. "You do not want to know how you can even enact such a thing? When we first took these bodies I could have done this," he squeezed his hand to bring her attention to it, "and you would have neither felt nor thought anything of it. Just now, as short and faint as a beating heart, I saw you lower your brow and think _why is he doing this? What is the point? _And since you could find no purpose in this gesture, it made you ill at ease."

The eyes emoted for a face that could not, green eyes unblinking and imploring. He did not even need to think the words. Please consider. Do not say when you think you must just yet.

But she had to.

She released her hand and gently as he held it. "What I feel or do not feel matters not. The fact we have been compromised does." The anticipation deflated out of him. "The angel has found us and I do not wish to remain here long enough to find out how he accomplished such a feat."

"If he has found us once, no matter where we go from here, he will follow. Perhaps not in the body he inhabits now, but Castiel will. We cannot avoid him forever."

"I do not think he will abandon that vessel for us..." It was a failed attempt to veil uncertainty. Castiel's method of embodiment and transport was not the issue, although at another time it could have been. Moreover, his bondmate associated that flesh as the angel's own and in turn the other became fond of it, she decided Castiel would never dispose of it for any reason.

This changed nothing. He did not know what they were, but he could track them. Whatever links or traces they left in their wake could be traced and once identified, what made it unique, was never forgotten. It may only lead him so far. On his own he was only possible of interstellar travels when not encumbered by a body, and that was all he could do. Even his brothers the archangels were limited in their power; they could never comprehend the complexity of extended alternative realities.

Their reality? It was all so very damaging. She leaned her back against the boards and slid down rapidly with a tiny thump, the sand resisting against her weight to a non-existent degree. It was... becoming difficult to maintain herself on her knees again. Humans collapsed like this when under stress or frightened, correct? Their "knees give out." The burden of secrecy could not be maintained after all, and is that not the way she has seen these stories play out? Nothing ever stays hidden. Hundreds or thousands of years may pass by but in every instance the truth is always revealed.

He let he regard her thoughts quietly for a moment, not wanting to listen to them but having no choice. A disquisition would only lead her to resist further and shun the true beauty of the meeting that had just occurred.

"Why did you choose this place?" He inquired offhandedly.

The voice brought her attention back to the present. "I... I'm not exactly sure. The first place I thought of, perhaps. I think I know now why he..." She trailed off dreamily, her eyes drifting to her left. Curious as to what caught her attention, he followed suit.

Hidden in a dull shadow cast by the waxing moon and pressed further into the building to avoid any light given off by the fireworks, the two watched a family of three walk into view approximately a dozen yards away, voices muffled by distance and the multitude of explosions overhead. The little girl tore her hand away from her mother's as she flew behind her father, sending sand flying in a spray around her, as a firework whistled and twirled in the air much closer to the ground as the others. She thought it must be about to hit her and daddy would be the best shield. The mother's shoulders shook as dad leaned down and tried to calm the girl down. A pat to the head and a large hand enveloping hers, they continued down the beach, a step behind her parents just in case another rogue spark went astray.

The family receded to nothing more than a dot; the show above reached it crescendo.

"Don't they deserve answers?" He asked regretfully.

Of... of all the things to say. Ignorance. Incorrigible ignorance. Had he not learned anything? Had he not listened to a word she said? The pleas, the evidence – did it mean nothing to him? This is what it must be to feel incensed. A fury so righteous it halts all thought.

"Answers for questions they did not ask! Answers they would not need if not for you." She grabbed her head in discomfort. The inner dialogue was overlapping vocal speech, causing feedback she was not prepared for, nor was it expected. Two mouths speaking at once. It did not hurt much, the resulting vibration, though pressure built up behind her eyes as her vision shook.

"For us." What could he do for his comrade as she sat upon the ground, so absorbed by her own confusion it physically weakened her? He did what he always did. Watch. Watch as life evolved and died and lived once more, only to repeat ad infinitum and always from a distance. Yet here they were, by their own choice, finally a part of that life, living as these being do. Still watching, yes, but now able to breathe in air heavy with salt or flowers, to caress or drink water fresh from a spring (which they did enjoy). Cold and hot were no longer words but sensations, as was pain. Fresh bruises from newborn tumbles dotting their legs and cuts healing over on palms were a constant reminder. It was a joy.

It was something she had participated in so willingly, indulging in the perks of discovery to later reprimand him to ease her own guilt. That was not fair, nor was it wise. She pulled her knees up to her chest and rested her head on them, hands encircling her legs tightly against her. Dirt and mud stained them now and a hole had already formed around the knee. Her "son" did not fare better with no protection, no matter how little the pants provided, in shorts: scabbing, bruising. Nothing particularly gruesome, but enough to capture someone's attention.

"Perhaps... Perhaps you're correct. In universes untainted they should know of us and what we are to them. You are correct in that sense and I would..." She had to be honest, for her thoughts were not hers alone. "I would enjoy that. But have you not seen what knowledge can do? You show a being of so-called intelligence Paradise and soon they want nothing more than to control or destroy it. With discovery and research, and with best of intentions in mind, nearly everything ends in death. Need I remind you of Wilbrand? It is why we've remained hidden."

"With knowledge comes definition. Do you not want to know _why _we are so determined to be kept secret? We know nothing of what we are capable of doing yet we cower immediately away when the opportunity arrives!"

"You sound so impassioned," she observed, almost in a daze. The speed of transformation was astounding.

He lowered himself onto his knees in front of her. She needed not only to hear his words – she needed to see _him_. Not his body reacting to his emotions but that he had them in the first place. They were an example.

"That's because I am. For the first time we have a chance to understand what we are, maybe even for what purpose we were created. We've told ourselves for eons that we are omnipotent and that is only because we have nothing else to compare ourselves to. This, where we are right now, existed to us only as what you would call here a 'television show.' Rapidly flickering images and nothing more. It is another life. But now we are a part of it, and we _know _we can become a part of it. If we can be more than just observers, what else are we capable of?"

"It sounds like you want to–"

The sentence was already completed in her mind before she spoke so he cut her off hastily, not liking the direction she was going into. "I would never use what is discovered for malice. Like you, I would never attack what is not already attacking me. Do you comprehend this yet? The answers will never be given to us. We must seize it ourselves."

The fireworks ahead ceased. People closer to the shoreline trekked up the beach past them onto the grass to reach the parking lot. The voices died down until the sound of waves once again reigned.

And they listened.

Castiel would be arriving at any moment, angel blade in hand and demanding answers and would most likely do anything to get them. A majority of those answers they knew they could not give. The threat of violence was not what worried them. Then what was it? Would it be the questions? Or was it awareness that their time here would soon be over?

Face buried in her legs, she muffled, "Do you desire to be omnipotent as you claim us to be?"

A hand brushed over the sand, gritty and warm, back and forth, back and forth. "I just... want to know."

"And I am afraid to know."

* * *

They had no intention of leaving, it seemed, and stranger still, they didn't look the least bit bothered that less than an hour ago he had attempted to kill one of them. Maybe not attempted, but he was willing to if the situation called for it. Cas would rather keep one or both alive, although they had been stalking Dean and Sam and their safety always, always, came first.

Tracking the two was much more simple this time; the first contact was all he needed to filter out... what exactly? When he attempted to locate them, what was he searching for? What _was _it that led him to them? The closest designation he could imagine was a premonition or a hunch: an invisible string guiding him to where they have been and the area where they were. They would know. They would have to know.

Answers. Too many questions – he was losing track. The most important ones, as always, were the usual ones.

Identification.

Winchesters.

Cas waited for the final car to leave behind him before unsheathing the angel blade and appeared beside the boy this time. They regarded him with...

"..."

_Excruciating..._

"..."

Passivity.

"Uh..."

His eyes passed back and forth between them, both positively neutral to his presence. Gone was the boy's excitement of seeing him, and the woman tucked her head to her legs once again after acknowledging him. This is... well, this is not how things normally turn out. Cas appears, his target thinks "oh no, angel," there's fighting and yelling and blood, stabbing, smiting. This was unexpected, so much so he felt exposed, standing alone on display, armed while they were not.

A conversation they were having was interrupted by him? Cas felt as if he were intruding and... This is not how it's supposed to work!

Cas groaned at his own stupidity and limply pointed the knife down at them. "Alright. The both of you stand up."

The young man was quick to reply. "Before we begin, may I make a request?"

_And Dean taunts _my_ voice_, thought Cas. Neutral; a completely straight line. The tone was of a boy who had finally become adjusted to one of a man but much like Cas himself, the articulation was not his own.

"You're in no position to make demands of me."

"Perhaps, but..." He shook his head. "Don't hurt them."

Cas looked over his shoulder, expecting to see someone else. "Hurt who?"

"He means us," came the small sound of the woman, still in the same position he had found her in.

"I can further elaborate if necessary," he added as she clearly had no intention of it, "but please do not harm these bodies."

"What do you care becomes of your vessels?" Was all of this concern false? A distraction?

"It's a... preventative measure." He stood up slowly, displaying that he should not be considered a threat, which meant very little. "From making a bad situation worse."

She felt him encouraging her to to also stand and face what stand before them. Oh, he made it sound so uncomplicated. Castiel was more than a threat to themselves. That interposition was crossed many weeks ago when they first arrived, when everything and anything could harm or discover them. The challenge had passed and been replaced by something far worse: this thing, this angel made flesh standing before them, was their uncertain future. What he did or did not do was portent to not just the two of them here but where they came from. This was it, and she could not face it.

This Castiel, out of all of them, was their harbinger of death. If it were happening to someone else, perhaps it would have been funny.

Cas sensed the unspoken communication between them. He didn't hear it like angel radio... It was what he and Dean shared, as did Sam and Dean. Judgment that can only be gained from intimacy: physical, familial, years of close friendship. There wasn't a word for it, not one Cas knew anyway, but he had a hunch. Almost like an aura. Not in the metaphysical sense where people glowed green and yellow. That was how a human would explain it, anyway. It was something much better. He believed that humans could sense souls, not in the way an angel would, but that their own would catch a glimmer of it in the air and interpret it. Finishing sentences, catching lies, entire conversations held within a glance.

Their souls stayed placid, reacting to nothing – not him, not to whatever was controlling them or their environment. Stuck in stasis. Angel nor demon resided in them, yet they transferred themselves from place to place exactly like them. Pagan gods? No. The old gods are dead. He mentally dissected John Winchester's notebook and could recall nothing of the sort.

The woman rose her head and tentatively lifted herself up, legs numbed and tired, so tired. This was wrong and things would never return to their former state...

Out of the darkness of the woods and finally standing, Cas was able to get a better look at them. Their state of dress signified that they have been in these vessels for two weeks at the very least. The woman was not much taller than the boy, who seemed to be anywhere between the ages of 13 and 15. Short russet curls were tied back in a loose ponytail though some strands had escaped; whomever inhabited the body presumably did not know how to tighten the knot properly. Hazel eyes appeared almost clear in the moonlight and stunningly sharp cheekbones carved her face.

The young man's hair reminded Cas of Dean's own when he was that age, but that is where the resemblances ended. Though smaller, he had a larger build and the posture was rigid, on account of the possession being the most likely cause. His skin was much fairer than his mother's and overall did not share her features but that of the father.

"I'm sure it's plain to you that our vessels live. We would like to return them once we are finished here, despite what may transpire between us. But in the end," he turned to face his "mother," "that all depends on her."

"You don't get to decide on how we proceed," Cas spat indignantly, gripping the blade a little more tightly. "You have been stalking the Winchesters and wherever your trails lead me to, monsters and demons are being altered. Just now, the vampires..."

_You couldn't tell me where you were just now, could you?_

_You don't remember, don't you?_

_Nearly 15 hours cannot be accounted for._

Dean had reprimanded him, and Cas himself had acknowledged that he had lost track of time. He was frozen, much like the vampires were. What he had done to them was what he did to Cas that morning. No amount of prods or pushes and yells would have woken them. It was all related. Whatever they come into contact with was affected.

Cas grabbed the front of the child's shirt and rammed his back into the building hard enough to make the wood creak underneath and pressed onto him. He looked squarely at Castiel, expecting it or not caring.

"What are you doing to us?" He pressed in harder. "What purpose do these alterations serve?"

"Like I told you, Castiel," the boy croaked out, windpipe closing off from the forearm pressing against it, "the decision is not mine to make."

The woman's sunken face became even more plaintive as her comrade mentioned her. Why did he insist this? Why was it hers alone to make?

No matter where they went or they choices they made, he wanted it to be unanimous. They left together, found these bodies together, explored this planet and stayed watching the brothers and the angel together. She knew where his interests lay throughout all of this and was willing to play along, never being forced, knowing the consequences and proceeding. The blame, the burden, _should _be hers. It could have been prevented, all of this. The deaths, the inevitable annihilation, if she had simply refused all those weeks ago.

_You know my request is not to be interpreted that way. I want you to make this decision because you deserve to. Nothing may become of it and nothing may change. It is as Castiel says: alterations. It's not as simple as us being threatened by their angels or demons and facing annihilation. We have changed fate on this planet and most probably, the universe. We have done something we never could have imagined possible._

_A choice._

_Correct. Yes or no, do or do not. It has happened. In the end, that what this excursion was, and why I was so enamored to survey the Winchesters. I wanted to know what happened when something such as us made choices and what would happen thereafter. Now I know. We're being rejected. Whatever may happen with Castiel now will be our last decision. You know what is at risk and my stance on it. That is why I leave it up to you._

"It should be elementary. Then why do I feel... Why do I feel at all?" Her voiced bordered on lament.

"What were you two saying just now?" Castiel growled.

She placed a gentle hand on Castiel's arm and urged him back. "I should hate you, you know. Your kind. What you've done. But hate is unknown to us, or was. Please let him go. We will not die, but choking his vessel will."

Cas resisted. "_Answers._"

"I wish I did have answers, something I could present to you with evidence. Only theories, like yourself." She tugged back once more. "We're unarmed and unaware of any abilities we may possess. As you can see, we offer little resistance to threats."

_The vessel is dying. You have to decide now._

The angel would not let go, and rightfully so. He is panicking from unknown circumstances: his time lapses and his bond's aggression. She did not need to _see_ to know that he was concerned about the possibility of losing Dean. While Castiel may consider this a job, his protective nature truly held domain over him at the moment. The only thing he had ever loved was hurting, as was he for being a cause, and he believed to have found the source, critical thinking pushed aside to maintain intimidation.

She could end this right now. A touch and they would return to the place of arrival, release the bodies and leave this behind. They would leave this world, yes, but to what? They could not see the impact they had until they returned home, but what of here? Would this world ever regain its former state? What of fate? They were now a part of it. So what happens_?_

She looked at Castiel's narrowed eyes and saw everything. His life. His lives. And she pitied him. He didn't know. Nothing did.

_They should not know. It is for the best. Then why do I feel so sad?_

He left the questioned unanswered. _What do you want?_

"I want someone to know." She would remain. For now, until the feeling went away, until the words stopped flowing. This journey was filled with many regrets which could never be undone. The choice has presented itself. Do or do not. She will. This would not be a regret; a last act of defiance before... before what? The end? Will or will not, it has already happened.

"Castiel, Fallen from God, Angel of Thursday, guardian of Dean Winchester and Sam Winchester, bond of Dean Winchester, and One of Many. Release the boy and I will tell you what I do know."

Shocked at such a title, Cas relented on his grip as the woman pulled him completely off. Unable to find anything to say, he could only stare at her. One of Many? Bond? Did the words even have meaning?

The tings of blue faded from his face as he inhaled freely, although he did not gasp as a human would. It was beginning. Inwardly he could not contain it and felt his partner ignoring it, rather focusing on Castiel and what she herself felt.

"I know you have many questions and concerns, and I suppose I gave you more with the introduction, but I will answer what I can if you will allow it."

Cas tried to regain the intimidation he lost in the confusion, remaining cautious and wary to whatever they might say. "Skip _nothing_."

Allowing time for him to regain his breath, she began, doing exactly as the angel requested.


End file.
